The Estranged Star
by GaleSynch
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange knew her son had always been an odd one. AU. SI-OC.
1. –

Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

–

Hidden by the shadows that shroud the alleyway I'm hiding in, I watch them: the Muggle mother and son pair that had been in the store for quite awhile.

The boy is such a menace I feel like drawing my wand—no, _his_ wand, this wand still cleaves to its first and last owner, forever loyal but because I am who I am, the wand is obliged to obey me—and end his life there and then. But I suppress the murderous rage—as I had done so often in these past nineteen years—because times have changed and I'm a wanted fugitive.

Causing so much scene in the country where I'm one of the most Undesirables is not a smart thing to do. Not especially when I have an important purpose here.

(_It's that fateful day again, so full of bitterness_)

Still, I watch them, trying to ignore the burn in my chest.

The mother smiles rather awkwardly and I can hazard a guess why she smiles so. I see, by their simple and worn clothes, that they are not rich. It is easy to guess that the mother does not have the required amount of money to buy what he wants.

My son is never like this. He never demands, even when we're on the run, when he's still just a young baby, he never cries or demand much, as if he knows that I'm troubled by him enough already.

(_My love for you is forever, all you want I'll do_)

I remember Rasalas clearly, the last time I saw him. And he's just eighteen. Forever eighteen, always eighteen, never old enough to cross into manhood. My son is beautiful at age eighteen, he reminds me of me: his pale skin and that dark hair of mine that flows from his crown. But perhaps his eyes are the most memorable—only when those blazing blue eyes blink from Rasalas' shy lashes do I truly admire Rodolphus' eyes. Looking into Rasalas' eyes, I can forget that I want red, catlike-pupils to stare back at me.

Unfavorable memories of my son, mostly from when before he's born and he's just cells growing in my womb, are here in my head too. I remember the distaste and disdain I have when I hear that I'm pregnant with him. Detestable! How am I to serve the Dark Lord properly if I'm so heavily weighed down?

But the Dark Lord is understanding; he tells me to rest, to stay safe (_oh my Lord_) enough to give birth to my son who will no doubt serve him as loyally as I did.

Once he's born, there's this odd, twisting sensation in my chest. I can't describe it very well, but I think it's love. something I didn't realize until now, when he's no longer in my arms and he's outgrown my embraces. Maternal instincts, motherly love.

For Rasalas, the brilliant star.

My brilliant son.

I still have a hard time believing it, even after nineteen years, that he is actually different from all of us. At first, I thought he was a Diviner—one who is greater than Seers and with him on our side, we will be indestructible, we will win—but he's not that special, he's another brand of special. A unique difference.

Someone who's from another world.

His memories are my most prized possession. Kept in a fragile glass that I fortified with every Charm possible to protect it from shattering. I also keep a Pensieve, so that, when I miss him the most, I will immerse myself in his memories, I will live as him.

I will see the years of his life that I'd missed.

Like all stories go, his story started with a once upon a time.

–

Once upon a time, there lived a child. Like all children, she believed in magic and was an impressionable kid, she grew up and magic was long forgotten. However, like all children will eventually, she died.

Actually, she was unsure if she died or not. Or maybe she had just been dreaming for a very, very long time. A baby's nine months time in the mother's womb equivalent to her nineteen years of life.

Well, if she truly had been asleep—

–

If I'm asleep, then this would have to be the worst damned nightmare of my entire life.

Cold, cold air found its way down my windpipe, rattling my small lungs as I take in as many breaths as I could; I was gasping for breath. Not unusual as I'd been drowning minutes earlier. At least, that was the impression the constricting darkness had given me, it had been so hard to breathe there and air kept escaping plus, there was water everywhere.

I was crying before I knew it. I was so damned confused that I wanted to let it all out, to let everyone know how I felt so I can get some answers and—

_help me_

—someone cradled me, strong and warm, moving me. My world swirled in a blur of darkness as I felt myself lifted from wherever I had been laid to rest not a moment ago.

Another pair of arms, accompanied by a tired voice ("What do we call him?"), accepted me, caging me in their embrace, cradling me to their bosom. This was a woman holding me.

Which made it even more weird since I was too big and heavy to be fitted into someone's arms.

Confused, I squirmed, trying to swing my fist to dislodge the attacker. _Let go!_

"Rasalas," said a woman's voice. "His name will be Rasalas. Then we can nickname him Sal—similar to our Slytherin founder. How wonderful..." I couldn't see but I think she was smiling.

"Rasalas Lestrange," The name was tasted on a man's tongue; he rolled the name, caressed the syllables before he delivered his opinion of it: "Yes, I'd like that."

A hand on my head stopped my struggles. Rough, callused palms. Protective, gentle.

"Rest, little Sal, we have _so_ much in store for you."

I closed my eyes.

–

_Edited – 22 August 2015 – by GaleSynch_

_**R&amp;R**_


	2. i

Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

_**1**_

How does someone gain the privilege to be reincarnated? Or, to make my special circumstances clearer, gain the privilege to be in another body and the opportunity to start a new life with adult memories and a life's worth of mistake? That was something I often ask myself during my infant-hood but even after ten years, I would never know.

How it feels to be someone you aren't, however? I know that feeling only too well.

It took me only a few days to realize what had happened and it hardly mattered if I accepted it or not right away. I had the rest of my second life to struggle and accept and embrace who I was.

I was now a baby.

In another world, by the looks of it.

I mean, how many Lestrange family are there in the real world who, conveniently, often speak of the Dark Lord Voldemort? None. There was no such thing in the real world which undoubtedly meant that I was in another world. One out of reach from others, or so I previously thought. If someone like me could access it, how many others more-deserving individuals had?

And, most probably, those deserving individuals had not started their second lives with such terrible revelation.

The revelation was who my parents were: Bellatrix Lestrange and Rodolphus Lestrange.

I tried real hard not to cry when I realized that fact. But that wasn't all.

I was a boy.

I was a boy. A guy. A man. A male. And every other synonyms in the world for the word boy, y'know, the gender. I didn't want to believe it. Even though the name was out of the ordinary and sounded Arabic instead of English. It wasn't even a unisex name: it had that masculine tinge to it. Like, you instinctively think of a boy when you hear that name.

For the first time, I was glad that I wasn't in full-control of the body.

I know, I know, I couldn't possible avoid learning how to, er, function as a boy forever. But I'd like to avoid that trauma as much as possible. How fortunate it was for the remaining scraps of my dignity that there was magic; my diapers were changed using magic and I thanked every deity I knew of for that.

I couldn't exactly flail in panic as I couldn't move or even control my hands properly, but I did hyperventilate (I think) and I needed my 'mother' to comfort me, patting my back and carrying me.

It was weird, and I attributed it to the instinct coiled into the body's DNA to be so receptive to its mother. Please, she was a deranged murderer and it sent alarm bells ringing in my head by just hearing her voice. It was the body; the baby body felt safe in her presence, the mother of the body.

She was the only one the baby smiled to, because on days my situation got so unbearable I actually screamed and threw a temper tantrum. She was always there to comfort me and reassure me that_ everything was OK_. I guess, judging from her current attitude and the personality she'd have once she escaped from Azkaban, that Azkaban had done a number on her.

A woman whose clever ambition and fierce passion who got out of hand.

Thinking about it like that, it made me want to cry.

What a damned pity. She could've been a great hero.

**~{I}~**

It was rare to see a wand lying around. Because we were at war and one slip was all it takes to be killed. That was why every wizard and witch had their wands at ready, in an accessible place on whichever part of their body. To see a wand lying on the sofa...

I scrambled over to it, clinging to it with my chubby fist (neither of my parents were fat or anything, so I didn't think I was considered too big for a baby). If there was anything worth the insanity, terror and sheer disbelief I had been put through, this was it: magic, the feeling of it trapped in the wand I was holding.

A large hand encased my own. "Sal, that is Uncle Rab's wand, put it down. You'll get your own someday." The gentle admonishment didn't stop me from flinching slightly.

"Extinguish the fire before the manor burn down, Rab," My sperm donor's voice called out from somewhere behind us. I turned to look at him; he was sitting on the other single-seat sofa, reading the—I squinted—Daily Prophet. Over the grey papers and moving images, I noted that his copper hair was cropped shorter than before , which meant my mother had gone through with her threat to trim his overgrown hair. And I could easily imagine his strong jaw behind the yellow newspaper, his almond-shaped eyes the bluish-steel of a midwinter sky, and weariness marred his handsome features.

(_In war, who isn't tired?_)

"He's going to be as destructive as his mother someday," My uncle predicted darkly as he extinguished the flames eating away at the soft material of the sofa with a wave of his hand. I watched, fascinated, as he repaired the burnt parts and plopped himself down beside me. "That was a good thing, Sal," he told me, ruffling my rather wavy hair (which I obviously inherited from Bellatrix) which framed my face.

Just recently, I had looked into the mirror. Pale skin and thick, shiny dark hair like mother's. But my eyes were like father's. And, come to think of it, like Rabastan's eyes. It would seem the bright blue eyes were a Lestrange trait.

I didn't see my 'grandparents' which meant that were were dead or they were in hiding.

As an infant, my interactions were very limited. I was born during wartime (_born November 13th, in the year 1978_) and tensions were running high with the deaths and fights going on. I would have a cousin brother soon, I already had a cousin sister. But I didn't think Bellatrix would be letting me join Nymphadora's tea-party anytime soon and there were too little babies being born in the pure-blood elites Bellatrix deemed acceptable to socialize with, especially to the active Death Eaters who are also fighting for their lives just as much as they are taking lives.

I found out, pretty quickly, that Rabastan was as much my uncle as he was my godfather.

Being childless and wifeless, he was often on the battlefield so I didn't see him much. But ... he wasn't actually a bad person. Well, he joked and laughed with his brother, he ruffled my hair and entertained me with his wand. I quite liked him, despite what his occupation was.

It was weird. That I liked being carried around by him, being carried by his hands that have taken more life than he had given.

I wasn't very close to Rodolphus, in fact, I had seen very little of him but he did plant a kiss on my forehead before leaving, various nights, and he would tuck me in. He seemed to have a warmer approach to his own child than what Lucius Malfoy portrayed himself to be.

Bellatrix was the one I spent most of my time with. The three months she was given lift from her testing job of a Death-Eater was the time we bonded. Needing to recuperate after giving birth to me, she had to stay at home. She told me a lot of things, about the Dark Lord and she had already drafted plans of how I'd be serving Voldemort as loyally as her and I'd make her proud.

What shocked me and ruined my image of her being a lunatic was that ... she indulged in baby-talk (Why use 'biggie' to replace shitting when she, undoubtedly, had cussed like a sailor in her life?). I shouldn't be too surprised, judging from how she mocked Harry after Sirius Black's death. But that was when she was crazy - her sanity shattered into so many pieces and scattered by the wind to every corner of the world.

It was funny.

Funny enough to make me laugh.

(_But my laughter would quickly be stifled because in the Lestrange household, there was no such thing as joy_)

**~{I}~**

I was a quiet baby and had I been born to any other family, I would've been considered abnormal and possibly be subjected to a lot of treatment for a disease that wasn't even there. Fortunately, the Lestranges didn't care that I was quiet, that I didn't cry for attention or whine for affection.

I developed as quickly as humanely possible and was already roaming the house by the age of one, much to my uncle's chagrin.

Out of my three caretakers, Uncle Rab was the worrywart, baby-proofing everything he considered remotely harmful. He nearly had a heart-attack when he failed to find me in the living room (which also happened to be my playroom). To stop me from wandering around the house (and possibly stumble upon their storeroom that stored skeletons and Dark stuff) he gave me a toy broomstick with the promise to stay in the first floor area, but Rodolphus banned any sort of physical games in the living room when I crashed into the tea table and scored the first scar for this body.

"He's playing too much," grumbled Rodolphus as Rabastan fussed over me with Essence of Murlap.

"Sal's a child," said Rabastan exasperatedly. I cooed in awe as I fingered the spot where the scab was disappearing faintly. "What else can he do?"

Rodolphus eyed me curiously. "He always seem so aware of us ... a possible sign of high intelligence ... I say we can start him with his alphabets."

Snap. Pretending to be learning stuff I already knew.

... At least there wouldn't be geometry?

**~{I}~**

They homeschooled me themselves, taking turns; no tutors were hired because it was dangerous to invite strangers into your home. Around this time and age, that is.

The pro was they were lenient in their teaching; the con was ... I think it's pretty much pointless.

The worksheets they handed me as homework for when they were absent and I needed to be occupied weren't even properly marked. I was sure I got everything down right, even though my handwriting was like a chicken's scrawl, but they never said I did anything wrong because they only flipped through it to make sure I had done as I was told. They told me 'good work' but I knew that they were all too tired to really read through what I'd write.

Uncle Rab tried once, when I pointed out to him that he wasn't really checking, but he fell asleep in under three seconds.

It was also the first time it really hit me they were murderers, that I was born to their family and had been taken care of by them.

His robes were dark and the manor was also poorly lit, but I stretched and managed to bully the fairies into waking to light the room up. I fingered the fabric of his robes; it was frayed and dried, stiff and crusted over. I shifted to allow better light—and even the captured fairies leaned forward to see why they had been forced awake—and I saw it, the brown-red patches.

("Sal? Why are you sitting so faraway?"

"Uncle Rab... you _killed_."

"Yes, so? I didn't think you know the true meaning of it."

"Dis—gus—ting." _You're disgusting._)

If you have the Cruciatus Curse, why is there blood?

**~{I}~**

I was four when I realized that they were more than murderers: they were vile.

I had heard it frequently in the past few weeks, I heard mother's grief and shriek of rage at the Dark Lord's downfall and she often blasted things apart. Dad swept me out of the living room when Mom's curse blasted the caged fairy apart, taking away my source of light and reducing the object of my fascination into pixie dust. He placed me in his study and allowed me to rifle through his books with the promise that I wouldn't cause a scene.

He didn't seem to think it odd that a four-year-old would understand what he was saying. I knew that when I was truly four years old, I wouldn't have listened and would've made a mess anyway.

Mercifully, I was mentally an adult so the Lestranges have nothing to worry about.

I do, however, have something to worry about. Lately, I'd been wondering if the manor was haunted. Oh I knew the version of ghosts in this world but the novels were from Harry Potter's point of view. He had only met the tame ghosts from Hogwarts, so that didn't prove there weren't more dangerous ghosts in the rest of the world.

The screaming, as if the souls were being tortured, had me ducking under the table to hide.

Dad—or Rodolphus as I will sometimes referred to him as—found me on the third evening of hiding away from the ghosts, he dragged me out after I nearly brained him with _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy _and placed me on his lap, gently inquiring what was wrong with me.

I didn't even know until he pointed out that I was shaking badly.

Well, I'd never said I was the bravest person. And ghosts, they had always spooked me.

I grimaced as I told him about the screams. "...Are there ghosts?" I wanted to complain about the dark, even the study was dark and I couldn't find a switch. Only the old fairy whose light was dying accompanied me in the study and, you see, they aren't much of a company or protection.

"No, they're human screams," said Dad, and didn't go into detail except to tell me it was okay and nothing was going to harm me as long as I stay there. It was supposed to make me feel better, but somehow, I felt worse.

It did make the fear go away and when I realized I wasn't scared anymore, it struck me that he really was filing his job as a father because parents were _supposed_ to make us kids feel secured.

It took me three days of indecisiveness to find out who was screaming—if they were even alive anymore because it was been eerily silent since Dad assured me there was no ghosts in the house. Or were screaming. Plural form because the shrieks were varying in pitch—best guess, a man and a woman.

It was Barty Crouch who led me to them. Uncle Rab said he was his best friend and that he was just here for a visit; they had a good time teasing me about my fear of ghosts until Mom hexed them away. Looking back on it, it was quite stupid of me to let them bother me and distract me from my original purpose of approaching them: _why was he here?_

While the basement was not off-limits to me, Father implied that it was dangerous and since danger was supposed to deter me, I was not exactly welcomed there. But the screams really did come from down there.

Mom's voice reached me first.

"—me!" she was shrieking and I had never heard such hatred and pure malice in her voice. I edged, as silently as possible, down the stairs and waited for my eyes to adjust before hesitantly edging closer to the source of the voice.

I saw a fireplace that cast an eerie glow around the room; there was a hallway that stretched into darkness, I didn't explore that way because the screams were deafening, coming from an open doorway. It led to a large room, dark and lit only by the frantic fairies thrashing to escape from their cages.

I knew what was unsettling them the moment I set my eyes on the six people in the room: the Dark Magic that invaded every corner of the room.

"_Crucio!_" One Cruciatus Curse was bad enough, except that her voice wasn't the only one who shouted. I wouldn't have been as shaken had it been Crouch alone who had cast it, but my parents and uncle were casting it too.

Two people—one man and one woman—writhed on the ground, bound but they weren't gagged and they were screaming. Not begging for mercy, no, but just shrieking in pure pain. They were in so much pain their screams alone told paragraphs upon paragraphs of the pain they were feeling; it seeped into me and I actually felt their pain.

I must've made a noise because my world spun and I pitched forward and Dad caught me.

"Enough, all of you: we stop for today," Dad said, his voice was quiet but authorative as he carried me out of the basement, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

I looked into Uncle Rab's eyes: he was stowing his wand into the back of his pocket but his eyes were locked on mine; his eyes were such a vividly pale color in the dark that they reminded me of electricity; he glanced away, determinedly avoiding my stare. I shifted my gaze to Mom: her chest was heaving and her eyes were wild, as if she didn't know who I was.

Barty was bursting with complains I didn't register; I heard, though, Mom screaming at him to shut up before she shoved his wand into unmentionable places.

I expected Dad to yell at me or beat me but he just placed me on his chair in the study and said, "What were you thinking?"

I shook my head, grimacing.

"Fine, then." He rose from his seat. "Stay where you are, don't you ever wander down the basement again - not without permission."

("Don't look at me like that, Sal."

"..."

"Don't, Sal, just—_don't!_"

"Bella, you're scaring him."

"Listen, Sal, you won't have to hear the screams anymore. So smile, everything's back to normal."

"Why? Is it 'coz they're _dead_?"

"_Don't you look at me with those eyes, you little brat—!_"

"Shut it, Barty."

"Because we let them go."

"Why?"

"Because they're scaring you, sweetie.")

:: :: ::

I smoothed out the Daily Prophet, scouldning the headlines: _AURORS FRANK AND ALICE LONGBOTTOM TORTURED BY DEATH-EATERS_.

_Frank Longbottom had been confirmed to be permanently incapacitated, unable to string a sentence together but his wife is in a stabler condition. She is currently amnesiac, however, there is a likely chance that she'd remember what had happened and hopefully, aid her fellow Aurors to bring them to justice._

_Our current suspects are—_

"Don't read that rubbish, Sal," Uncle Rab said gently as he ripped the papers from beneath me and chucked it into the fireplace. I glanced at him, then at the trunk he was holding. He noticed it too, he tapped it with his wand and it shrunk; he clasped it and placed it in his pocket.

"Goin' somewhere?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Goodbye, Sal."

"Wait! Where're ya goin'?"

He smiled. "I have to lure the Ministry officials away." And he disappeared.

A week later, I learned that the house was protected by a Fidelius Charm and Uncle Rab was the Secret Keeper. He clearly never expected to be captured but he was anyway, along with Barty Crouch Jr. They were tried before the Court and sentenced to Azkaban.

I didn't know that was the reason why Dad sprang to his feet until I read to the end of the paper. Uncle Rab, caught and under Veritaserum, admitted his crimes; he would've spilled where we were as well.

But it was too late.

A Ministry official held me to her chest, restraining me as my parents were dragged away from me.

"Mother - Father - !"

I guess it never really hit me until then, that my parents were evil in everyone's eyes and thus, deserved to die.

–

_Edited – 22 August 2015 – by GaleSynch_

_**R&amp;R**_


	3. ii

****Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling**  
**

* * *

**The Estranged Star**

_Chapter 2_**  
**

* * *

"This will be your room."

Aunt Cissa's hand squeezed my shoulder gently and I could imagine the reassuring smile she was giving me. There were black rings under her eyes which're also rimmed red, I know she'd been crying about Mom being thrown into Azkaban. The trial was held two days ago and I was instantly given to Aunt Cissa because she was my only living relative left.

She hugged me when she first saw me, allowing me to stifle a sob in her shoulder, which was at the Ministry where I had been allowed, against all logic, to watch my parents' trial. It was probably a reminder to not go down that path u_nless you want to end up like that, kid._

Mom admitted with so much pride I was ashamed that she was waiting for Voldemort to come back and was sure her loyalty would be rewarded. Dad needed a Veritaserum because he refused to admit anything. He kept eye-contact with me until he was dragged away.

(_There was one second that I thought I saw his eyes flickered an apology my way before he was dragged away_)

Aunt Cissa had probably prepared the place in the nick of time but it was good. Spacious and bright; the walls were painted a blue the shade of the sky and the bed-sheets were the same color. I wondered how she knew I liked light colors. The furniture were white, a sharp contrast to the mahogany wood that constructed the Lestrange Manor's furniture. I wasn't in any place to complain though.

"Do you like it?" Aunt Cissa asked me quietly.

I nodded. "'S okay, I guess."

"Your clothes have already been arranged," Aunt Cissa told me as she snapped her fingers. "Dobby!" I blinked when I heard the familiar name and I turned to see the house-elf bowing low to Aunt Cissa. "You see, Sal? Just snap your fingers and call his name and he'd come to serve your every whim. Begone, Dobby."

"Yes, Mistress." Curious tennis-ball eyes eyeballed me before disappearing with a crack.

"Come, I'll show you my son. He's younger than you by two years and he's named after the constellation Draco. I'm sure you'll get along." It was a very long walk to the nursery and Aunt Cissa kept enthusiastically pointing this and that to me. I was grateful at her attempt to cheer me up but her falsely-cheery voice was quite sickening.

"Keep your steps light, Sal, Draco's asleep and it had been a chore to get him to do so without a Sleeping Charm." For the first time, her tone was genuine, her smile was warm and those changes made her seem twenty years younger. There was a toddler on the mat, sucking on his own thumb as he slumbered. "Sal, you will... help me protect my son, won't you? Like a big brother would."

"...Whatever," I said coldly.

**:: :: ::**

I was five, but I was old enough to know when I disliked something.

The reason I disliked Draco weren't just limited to the fact that he was a demanding baby, often throwing tantrums and crying, sending Aunt Cissa into a frenzy to calm him, but he was also a spoiled brat that demanded I keep him company 24/7.

But the main reason is that he's always fawned over by his parents. Now, I know I'm being irrational and I can't exactly blame Draco for being loved—how was it his fault my parents weren't acquitted their crimes by the Wizengamot?

It had been a year since I came to live with Aunt Cissa and her family; they treated me OK, Aunt Cissa had the tendency to fawn and fret over me like a real mother would. But Lucius treated me indifferently and we barely spoke sans the proper amount of greeting.

It may seem that he simply didn't care that I existed.

Oh but you see, there was the problem. He cared that I existed; not in a loving way, rather, he knew I was a thorn in his side.

The Black Family had no heirs, with Regulus Black dead and Sirius Black in Azkaban, the male line was dead. The female line was extant but since Andromeda had been disowned, only Narcissa and my mom would have any right to inherit it. As I was the son of the oldest daughter, the title of the Black family and their wealth would be passed on to me.

Wow, I was all impressed and happy when I figured that out.

But I started watching out and was careful to avoid being in the same room was Lucius. If I died, Draco would inherit everything. That was almost enough to keep me functioning without food and water and that's just how possessive I am about my wealth and everything I own.

I was sure that the only reason I'm not six-feet under is because Lucius Malfoy didn't have the guts to challenge my Mom even though she's currently serving a life-sentence in Azkaban. I heard Aunt Cissa telling her husband that the very first lesson she'd learned as a girl was _what Bella wants, Bella gets._

Translation: Bellatrix _will_ find a way to you and she _won't_ be merciful.

I felt a little touched, that even though my parents are so far away from me, they were still protecting me.

**:: :: ::**

_Someone's there. No, not human perhaps. Something's there, staring at my back, trying to drill holes and making me sweat in fear. Well, they're succeeding in doing the latter._

I trembled slightly and pulled the comforter tighter around myself, feeling oddly cold. I wish Dad was here to talk me through rationality (he'd say, _ghosts can't touch us, can't hurt us so there's not a thing to be feared_) or Mom was here to chase them away (she'd say, _nothing can hurt you while I'm here, sweetie_).

But I was alone.

So alone.

I can't sleep.

I rolled out of bed, and silently made my way out of the room. The hallway was as dark, if not, darker. I shuddered slightly as I made my way down the now-familiar hallway of Malfoy Manor. There's still nothing like your own home, even if the Lestrange Manor was darker, it still carried the memories of my protectors and the wards were familiar to me because I had Lestrange blood and that manor was warded to protect me against _everything_.

I wonder what that makes me, to miss murderers, causers of grief to a lot of people out there. But usually, I tried not to think about the number of people my parents and uncle had killed and tortured to achieve their dream.

I would like to think of them as people who are very passionate of their goals and ambitions.

"Master Lass?"

I jumped a foot in air and it was a good thing it was dark or Dobby the house-elf would've seen my sheet-white face. His eyes that were the size of orbs were peering at me with curiosity. "Is there something Master Lass need, sir?" he added tremulously. Dobby was afraid of his master and mistress but he still had to speak if he was to serve them properly and avoid any punishment.

I unstuck my throat, trying to not be embarrassed by how terrified I was of an house-elf. "I... just a glass of hot milk, thanks."

"Oh, no, no, no— Master Lass don't thank Dobby! It is Dobby's job, sir! What Master wants, Dobby serves, sir! Shall Dobby sends it to Master Lass' room?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that would be appreciated." Dobby looked so overjoyed at being thanked I felt sorry. I backtracked and crept back into my room.

It may be my paranoia or my imagination, but I was sure my covers weren't so haphazardly thrown. My heart thudded, uncomfortably loud even to my own ears; did someone move it? I was frozen stiff, rooted to the spot, unable to move out of fear. I don't know what to do, there's no way I could possibly run to Aunt Cissa because Lucius was there and I might, once again, hear _too_ much. If I go to Draco's room, I would be branded a coward and I don't think my ego could take that.

A crack resounded in the room and I jumped again, heart going wild. I calmed slightly and regained feeling of my limbs when I saw it was only Dobby. I took the glass from him and started drinking.

"Uh, Dobby?" I said when he bowed, probably about ready to Disapparate.

"Yes, sir? Is there anything Master Lass need?"

I closed my eyes, swallowed my pride and asked, "Can you stay here?" Dobby blinked, obviously confused. "Keep me company," I added. "I'm scared... of_ghosts_."

Dobby's eyes widened. "T-that's... but Dobby has cleanings to do but... if Master Lass command Dobby to does it, then he shall, yes, he shall. Dobby shall protects Master Lass from ghosts and bad thingies, he will."

"Thank you, Dobby," I said sincerely, offering him a small smile.

_He's a nice elf,_ I thought as I crawled into bed, feeling much reassured now. Silently, I promised myself to save Dobby, to ensure Mom didn't kill him.

He really stayed with me all night, vigilant at the foot of my bed as a guard.

Looking back on it, it was just pathetically sad that the only person you could run to and confide your fears in was a lowly house-elf. But I didn't have much choice.

Either Dobby's comfort or none at all.

**:: :: ::**

Have I mentioned how much I hated dark places, like basements, caves and such? The reason and further dislike of such places was interconnected with why Draco came to be so annoyingly affectionate to me.

You see, Draco wasn't always so insistent on sticking close to me. Nor did he like me very much in the first place. He always thought I was out to rob his mother's affections from him. (He didn't have to worry his little blonde head off about losing his father's affection through plain observation that Lucius gave me a cheap blank book when he bought a Coment 280 for Draco.)

That was to be expected—kids were always jealous of one another and as adults, the jealousy just grew worse. But the teasing, the goading and sneering insults completely blew me off. I didn't know where a six-year-old learned to be so vindictive to his elders but I assume this had something to do with Lucius. You can easily tell I have no respect for that man and that I had the tendency to blame every miserable thing that happened to me on Lucius (most of the time, it really _was_ his doing).

Lucius had snapped at me for beating Draco at chess and threw me out of the room (not physically).

Still, for Aunt Cissa's sake, I endured and dealt with the brat's tantrums and whatever he dished at me with a pained smile which was more of a grimace; gritted my teeth to swallow the scream of rage; clenched my fists so tightly my fingernails cut into my palms to stop myself from punching him.

I had only lost it once. Aunt Cissa had been too busy fussing over Draco's swollen eye to stop Lucius' rage. He threw me into the basement and snarled that I won't be getting dinner for that night and the next.

I hated basements. Hated it with a passion ever since I stumbled upon my family and Barty Crouch Jr. torturing Aurors Longbottom.

It brought back very bad memories. I'd been delusional back then, preferring to ignore what they were capable of (death, destruction, evil) and it had hit hard when they were taken away from me.

I missed them terribly.

My eyes stung. My parents wouldn't have punished me by throwing me into the basement and revoking dinner and privileges. I sort of imagined they'd talk me through it or give me timeouts like Aunt Cissa did whenever I caused trouble (which usually involved 'aggravating' Draco one way or another).

I would've been their favorite, like Draco was to his parents.

To be fair, I wasn't the sweetest kid around to Draco. Where Aunt Cissa and Lucius would praise him, I would find faults. Frankly, I was irked by how Aunt Cissa cooed about her 'smart' her Draco was and how proud she was of him. She wasn't proud of me, she just patted my head and told me to do better before drifting away.

I didn't think she did it intentionally, I refuse to believe it.

I would criticize Draco whenever he was bragging. But it wasn't always like that, his attitude to me changed completely when he hit six. At five, he may be obnoxious and demanding but he never threw barbing insults at me or insinuations that I was unloved and unwanted.

I guess, in retrospective, Draco was only retaliating the number of times I had shoved him away.

It was a wonder how Draco came to cling to my leg like a leech after that but Draco's first boggart was an Erkling.

Of course he didn't encounter one in the Malfoy Manor, that was ridiculous. The place was so heavily guarded even a fly wouldn't be able to get in (or out for the matter but that was not the point). We were on vacation then, in France with the Goyles and Crabbes.

Draco's future, personal bodyguards were there as well and they could keep him preoccupied or they could team up and try to make my life as miserable as possible.

During vacation, they chose the latter. I was assigned the specific task to take care of the kids while the women gossiped and the men plotted world domination. Taking care of Draco alone was stretching my nerves (there was only so much I can take), but add in Vincent and Gregory?

I grounded my teeth together, glaring out at the window of the luxurious vacation home we're currently settled in. What I wouldn't give to chuck the boys out the window and no one being the wiser...

"Hey, Sal!"

"What?" I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. If I gave in to anger and lash out, I would be admitting defeat. My glare was deadly enough but Draco knew he can push it since I was responsible for his safety and was expected to protect him even from my own anger.

"We're going out to explore the cave behind the villa!"

"No," I snapped, shifting into a straighter position to brace myself, just in case, for Draco's tantrum. Sometimes, he would just scream angrily. Other times, he would come at me with his fists windmilling. Today, he lasted longer and did not resort to a tantrum to get what he wanted.

"I don't care," he said arrogantly. "Vince, Greg and I will go." But he didn't move, he cracked an eye open to gauge my reaction. Obviously, he wanted to goad me into something.

If he thought I would fall for his bait and be thrown into panic and beg him to stop (like his mother often did to stop his tantrum), he was wrong. Even though I wanted to punch him, I settled for gripping the book tighter. "Go then," I hissed vindictively, "I don't care what happens to you idiots."

"Stupid Sal!"

He shot out of the room but I was less-than-concerned. He probably went to complain to his dad or went back to his friends to further plot his next act.

I was left to enjoy the tranquility that was the absence of three brats until Dobby Apparated into my room, in complete hysterics as he beat himself. I groaned softly but closed my book after bookmarking it, I placed it on the table and approached Dobby who sobbed and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, alternating between rubbing his tears and punching himself. "What's wrong?" I asked, eyes wide; tone laced with concern that I did not give to Draco. I crouched to his level and pried his hands off, holding it tightly. "I won't let you hurt yourself. Now tell me what's wrong."

"M-Master Draco—Guest Master Vincy and Greggy—gone! All gone!" Dobby sobbed even louder. "Dobby is to servings them lunch, Master Las," he moaned, in fear of what Lucius would do to him once he find out the elf lost track of his precious heir and only son. "Then, then is Dobby noticing them gone." He howled, collapsing onto the floor in a mess of tears, worry and fear.

I knew why he had come to me. I had allowed him to come to me if he had problems, in return for standing vigilant guard at night beside me, to protect me from those invisible specters. I knew they're there. I knew it.

I cursed softly as I ran a hand through my hair.

Those brats ... were serious when they said they wanted to go into the cave?

"Dobby—!" I stopped myself. What could I say? Tell him to alert the adults? No. He'd only get in trouble then. I was sure they haven't gotten very far, they were kids with short legs, I can catch up quickly and haul them back without anyone knowing of Dobby and my negligence.

To be fair, they ditched me. But I knew Lucius would ignore what I had to say in defense.

I stared at Dobby. "Stay here, I'll go. If I don't come back in an hour, then get help." I dashed from the room, quite alert of how my heart was pounding loudly.

If anything happened to them, Lucius would rip my head off.

_That's horrid_, a tiny, microscopic part of me hissed, _those kids might be hurt and you're worried about your own hide?_

_Of course, me, myself and I come first!_

Great, another sign of insanity. Talking to myself, I mean. I wonder if Mom and Dad were doing the same thing in their cells. Wait, now was not the time.

I tore out of the villa and into the woods surrounding this place; there was the waterfall to the east but I heard Goyle Sr. mentioning a cave in the south of the villa.

It was easy to tell where they had gone. Their footprints were imprinted on the muddy soil and they had snapped dry branches and twigs. I hoped that there wasn't any wild animals (or worse, magical creatures) out here that could scent them.

I didn't find the boys. They slammed into me, nearly sending me into the ground. At the youthful age of six, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were the weight of kids twice their age. So, you see, it was a magnificent feat for me to be able to still stand after that blow.

I wheezed but the fury chased away any room for catching breath. "YOU IDIOTS!" I screeched, ignoring how red their faces were; they had obviously been running. "YOU COULD'VE GOTTEN LOST AND—where's Draco?" I should've noticed this before. There were only two brats in front of me, the third and smallest were missing.

"I-inside," gasped Vincent. "He went into the cave when we wouldn't."

"You didn't drag him back?" I said, incredulous.

"Draco's scary," mumbled Gregory.

"Follow the trail," I snapped, pointing at the footprints and broken branches and pebbles I had dropped to mark which path I had came from. "Get back, shower and change, don't let anyone know and stay in your rooms until I get back."

I didn't fancy entering dark places but the emotion anger was powerful magic. Adrenaline was pumping in my veins, anger pounding in my ears and I plunged into the darkness before I had time to think twice about it. My eyes needed a few moments to adjust.

It was hard to maneuver in here; the only light I had was mostly obscured by the canopy of trees that surrounded this cave so the sun had a hard time making it in. The ground sloped downward; jerkily and cautiously I made my way downward, calling alternately for Draco's name.

"—it's not funny! If you come out now, I'd forget this ever happened and I won't get mad"—_'Cause I'm already pissed as hell and you're going to get it_—"Draco?"

I felt a flush of anger; here I was, risking my neck and wasting precious time to save his sorry as and he was cackling? I strained my ears as I made my way closer to the source of the sound. Was Draco's laughter this high-pitched? Heart thudding uncomfortably loud in my chest, I quickened my pace, stumbling and falling only twice.

"Oof!" Make that thrice.

I peeled myself off the rocky ground, picking the tiny pebbles from my palm and ignored how it stung. Before I could shout out again, a low voice crooned, "Come on, closer, that's it, boy... don't you want to see me?" Another cackle.

I spun, facing what I assumed to be north-east and marched deeper into the cave; the light from the entrance was very faint now and I go deeper, I would be completely blind. I clutched the stitch in my side, wheezing slightly, as I contemplated calling for Dobby.

"Draco?" I called uncertainly.

Then I saw it: a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

I screeched and my knees buckled in fear. I fell to my knees just in time to avoid some sort of attack. Something had whizzed past my cheek just now. I fumbled in the dark, hand groping until I found someone's ankles. I could wrap my hand around it; the ankle belonged to a child. "Draco!"

I scrambled to my feet, using his stiff and immobile body as a pole. The yellow-eyed creature cackled louder. I glanced around but didn't know it was close until it bit my leg. I shouted as sharp canines sank into my calf. I fell back, losing my hold on Draco but I didn't care about that for now.

My assailant's glowing yellow eyes became visible once more. I groped the earth around me, freezing in fear. My fingers were tingling with cold, so stiff I could not unlatch my fingers to defend myself.

It took me half-a-second to realize I was literally freezing. Bewildered, my heartbeat calmed enough for me to hear the soft crackling of ice: I looked for the source and in the dim lighting, caught something sparkling in the dark and I watched as its path spread widely and quickly, towards the creature.

It shrieked as ice crawled up its foot— my fingers felt even colder, I tried to ball my fists and, I envisioned the sparkling ice curling on command— I urged it upward and the next thing I knew, the Erkling (I read about creatures like these) was inches off the ground, blood trickling down the pole of ice—that I'd somehow created.

My fear had always been cold: a bone-chilling discovery at something I could not overcome, something that utterly overwhelmed me.

In retrospect, my terror triggering magic and unleashing it in a freezing spectrum was not unusual. But I had other priorities at the moment.

"...Draco?"

There was a moment of silence before someone moved. It was my annoying little cousin, no doubt. I heard hurried intakes of breath, sharp and seemingly panicked. "Vince! Greg! Guys—where are you?" His voice was laced in panic and I was content to just remain silent, stiff and glare at where his voice came from.

Good. Let that little brat repent... after all that he put me through... I was sick with worry—er, for myself certainly. I couldn't bear to imagine what Lucius would do to me if Draco died here.

When Draco sobbed and burst into tears, I moved. "I'm here," I announced, holding my hand out, but groped thin air.

Draco might've stilled. "Sal?" he whispered.

"No, this is Salazar Slytherin. Of course it's me! Get over here and take my hand!" I heard the sound of shuffling and I nearly shrieked when someone grabbed me from behind. I pried Draco's hands off and pulled him to the light instead. He refused, however, to let me go completely.

He was shaking so badly he could barely stand.

I ended up piggybacking the brat back to the vacation home, well-aware that the adults would swoop down on us in worry once they saw the state we were in. My hands were blue at the tips of my fingers; we were covered in mud and had scrapes, bruises and cuts that were still bleeding.

"You've been very foolish today," I grumbled, still simmering with irritation.

Draco's arms around my neck tightened briefly. "...'m sorry. I just—" I didn't hear what he mumbled next, so shocked I was that he actually apologized. _Draco Malfoy never apologizes!_

"Well," I said, a little bit uncomfortable with how pliant and subdued he was being. "As long as you know what you did wrong, you can always change Don't wander into unfamiliar territory again, you hear me?"

"Yes, Sal." A beat of silence rolled, broken only by the rustle of leaves and snap of twigs under my feet. "Thanks."

Slow down with the changes, man, you're giving me a heart-attack.

I shifted him, adjusting it so that I could be more comfortable.

"It's nothing," I told him. "I was supposed to watch out for you anyway."

**:: :: ::**

**EDITED: 17 November, 2014.**


	4. iii

****Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling**  
**

* * *

**The Estranged Star**

_Chapter 3_**  
**

* * *

How was it fair to punish me when it was Draco to run off?

It wasn't and after Draco explained everything, I got off easy—the usual lecture Lucius would give: blah, you irresponsible boy, blah, utterly incompetent, and blah. But I had gotten used to being screamed at. Of course I would feel hurt, irritation, anger and the second-natured urge to hurt him, but I struggled to maintain a blank mind.

(I found that feelings and hurtful memories rarely surfaced if I kept my mind blank and tuned them out. Also, it was baby-steps to learning Occlumency.)

Anyhow, I got off easy and left to my own devices (which happened more frequently as I grew older).

But I appreciated the time I got alone: it was usually time to practice magic.

It was a struggle at first; I could sense my magic within me, dormant and asleep, unresponsive without a magical wand core to channel it out. For the first time, however, I could paint a feeling to it. My magic was cold, like ice and snow, and the realization that my magic was attuned to ice magic made it significantly easier to channel.

* * *

Seemingly clogged beneath my ribcage was coldness beyond words, it was comforting from only within, but when it was unleashed—

(there were almost no words to describe the sensation: of melting that block of ice beating alongside my heart, of cold trapped in shards of semi-transparent quartz flying in every direction and showering the room in snowflakes)

* * *

**/**

Draco liked Rasalas best when it was summer—and sometimes, he utterly hated that time of year. His cousin always seemed to lose energy with every passing, summer day and fell sick almost biweekly so he was very inactive during that time of year, like a snake hibernating but during different seasons. There was once when Draco was seven and Rasalas collapsed on the spot, right in the middle of the large field behind the manor when they were supposed to practice Quidditch.

Narcissa had rushed Rasalas to St. Mungo's. It was the first time Draco had seen his mother so distressed; Rasalas so weak; his father so triumphant.

Those were the bad things about summertime.

But the good thing was this: holding Rasalas' always cool hands and being able to stay with his cousin without worry of falling ill, for Draco's immune system was strong, and his cousin wouldn't be able to win hide-and-seek when he was bedridden.

Rasalas had hated summers with the passion of a thousand suns prior to that cave incident with that Erkling—and they'd never visit France ever since—but it was after that incident that he grew weak under the sun and summer heat. Regardless, Rasalas had always hated sunny days and dearly wished to hide in the shadows when such days came by.

Rasalas loved the rain, the cloudy days and the winter—Draco hated what his cousin liked with passion.

Winter time, aside from being Christmas time which meant presents, was also the only time of the year when Rasalas could be seen laughing and smiling easily: on any other days, Rasalas looked ready to kill. But that meant Rasalas was up and moving when Draco wanted to burrow himself deeper into his bed.

Pestering Rasalas to play within the manor was impossible: Rasalas was up and early and quick, he rushed out into the snow without heating charms cast onto his clothes and built snowmen without gloves. Just magic.

"How did you use magic so easily?" Draco demanded.

Rasalas shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it properly to you," his cousin said, "but it's flowing all over me—I feel like I'd freeze if too much of my magic is bottled up inside me. So I use it often, it's pretty easy—for me—since it's cold."

Draco's teeth chattered in the cold of the winter evening. "Cold? How can you differentiate it in this weather?" Draco was so cold he might not even _recognize_ heat anymore.

Rasalas considered that seriously. "It's pretty obvious in other weathers... like _summer_." He frowned deeply at the mention of his least favorite season. "When it's summer, I feel my magic burning, withering and melting— but I'm pretty OK during spring and autumn... but here, in winter? I feel magic everywhere—I can't differentiate between my magic and the cold, I feel like I'm the control center of this snow though."

Rasalas' fingers twitched: a figure built entirely out of ice rose from his blue-veined palm. Rasalas' arm and body had always been heavily veined blue; and his body temperature was no different from ice.

"I can't feel any ice in me," muttered Draco dubiously. Sadly, Rasalas was not right about everything: such as the fact that his father was a git, Rasalas and his father had always been at odds.

"Maybe your magic is a different feeling for you... to me, my magic is ice, it's cold and it's soothing."

"I'd like fire," said Draco.

"Your face's red," noted Rasalas, seeming to notice they were sitting in the middle of a snowstorm for the first time. "Let's go back inside and warm you up."

**/**

* * *

Lucius' bad mood toward me lasted all through winter and to spring.

It was probably why Aunt Cissa brought me with her when she went to visit one of her old friend's grave. "Her name's Dahlia Moon, she was one of my closest friends." Catching my quizzical look, she added, "She died in the war when she refused to... take sides," she finished in a low whisper.

We avoided the topic of the Dark Lord and the War if we could. Evidently, the Death-Eaters who got off scot-free were scared as well.

Thinking about Death Eaters soured my mood also, I lost my parents when I had just warmed up to them, when I loved them. I still love them, don't get me wrong, I was just starting to forget how they look like.

I was surprised to find that the graveyard we were visiting wasn't exclusive to the Moons.

"Too many Muggle population," she said with distaste evident in her voice, "only very ancient and noble pure-blood families have private graves. The less... important are cramped together."

"Less important?" echoed a grave voice from behind us.

I jumped, startled and instinctively tensed, whirling around, fists clenched. I glared at the source of disturbance. Aunt Cissa let out a small gasp, "Barty Crouch!"

"I hope, by less important families that you mentioned," said Mr Crouch coldly, "you did not include my family."

Aunt Cissa laughed nervously, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. A nervous tic of hers, I noticed. "No, of course not," she said with a forced smile, clearly not wanting to piss Mr Crouch off. I was silent, mind still trying to process this information. You find yourself looking at a man who's going to be killed by his own soon, I can't help but looking at him weird. "I was just... I know you only agreed to this arrangement because you're selfless to share where others were selfish to not."

_Smooth, Aunt Cissa, smooth._

Mr Crouch obviously knew Aunt Cissa said such to appease him but he said nothing, striding past us down the row. I stumbled, pushed by an invisible weight. I saw trailing and trembling behind Mr Crouch was an house-elf who kept looking up and glancing around nervously.

The house-elf wouldn't be tall enough to brush my shoulder.

Someone was there.

I approached Mr Crouch who didn't lift his eyes to look at me. Aunt Cissa's friend, Dahlia Moon's graves was three tombstones away from Mrs Crouch. Usually, family members were put together. "So," I said, breaking the silence and it was awkward. "Is Mrs Crouch related to Ms Dahlia Moon?"

Aunt Cissa cast me a shifty look. "Yes, they were sisters."

"I guess they're reunited now, huh." I took a few steps forward, obscuring Aunt Cissa's sight of the pressed grass where someone invisible was _obviously_standing. Sheesh.

"I suppose so," murmured Aunt Cissa, closing her eyes, giving her respects to her friends.

I looked at Desdemona Crouch nee Moon's tombstone. _Loving Mother_. I guess she was. "So, where's your son?" I asked bluntly, wanting to rub it in this bastard's face. Who treats his son like that? A prisoner? I'm appalled. If it were my son, I would've declared him clear of all charges without a trial even if the evidence was so obviously stacked against him.

Mr Crouch's expression didn't even twitch. "Barty died years ago." His tone was flat and gave away nothing.

I feigned ignorance. "But I thought you're named Barty!"

"My wife was being unoriginal when she named our son," he said, the bite of annoyance concealing the grief in his tone.

"Or she loved you a lot," I mumbled.

Finally, Mr Crouch paid attention to me. His eyes darted to my features then to Aunt Cissa's face. "This boy is not your son," he stated, not a question.

"No, he's my nephew," Aunt Cissa's hand fell on my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, "Rodolphus and Bellatrix's son. Rasalas Lestrange."

"I remember you," I said abruptly when Mr Crouch just narrowed his eyes on me. "You persecuted Mom, Dad, Uncle Rab and their friend. I won't forget you. You son of a bitc—"

"Let's go, Sal," Aunt Cissa cut in sharply, grabbing my arm and dragging me away.

I glared hatefully at Mr Crouch but allowed myself to be drag along.

* * *

My foul mood didn't last long. I was a live-and-let-live sort of guy so my anger towards Mr Crouch dissipated quickly. I cheered up quickly when I learned that I would soon be going to Hogwarts.

It was amazing how time flies by.

I wasn't too disappointed to learn that Lucius wouldn't be there to send me off. At least Aunt Cissa was coming. In the past seven years, she really had become a second mother to me. Sure, she loved Draco more and showered him with more attention but she never neglected me or made me feel unwanted; whatever I wanted, she gave even when Lucius would make some criticizing remark.

I know why.

"You really look like Bella," Aunt Cissa told me as she ran a hand through my hair, trying to smarten me up before I was due to arrive at Hogwarts. Around us, loving parents were saying their teary goodbyes to their children. I was painfully aware of the fact that neither of my parents were here to see me off but I squashed down that hurt, I can't be the only one.

That's what I told myself, but whichever way I looked, I saw fathers and mothers together with their son or daughter or both.

I forced myself to smile, ignoring how much it hurts. "Stop fussing, Aunt Cissa," I said. "I'm fine."

I hadn't cried since I was born into this world, not even when my parents were taken away and thrown into Azkaban. Now, though, when I looked into Aunt Cissa's misty blue eyes, I felt a lump welling in my throat. Aunt Cissa may be light-colored but that didn't diminish her resemblance to my mother; it had been a while since I last dwelled on the fact that I missed my mom, as crazy and raving she must be by now.

I forced down the urge to cry, blink away the sting in my eyes, and said, "Um, I'll miss you."

"Me too, dear," she said, laughing to cover up her brewing emotions. "You've been like a real son, to me. I'll miss you, too, especially since I now have to put up with Draco's stories and nightmares. You've always dealt with them, any advice?"

I grinned weakly. "Just listen to what he has to say and nod a couple of times to show that you understand."

"Thank you." The train whistled loudly. She kissed my forehead, giving me a small, encouraging push. "Go now, be a good boy, don't get into trouble and don't—"

"Don't get Sorted into Gryffindor, I know," I finished, smiling before grabbing my trunk and leaving.

I turned just in time to see her wave and Disapparate. Great; I rubbed my eyes furiously. I'm not crying. There's no reason to cry like we're parting forever,_jeez_. Talk about being emotional. I don't think my parents would be too proud to see me cry, especially when I'm not even crying over them.

I was just blinking the spots out of my eyes when I ran into someone. A woman, if the breasts were any indication. I jerked back as if I had been burned. "Whoa," I said. "I mean—I'm sorry, missus, didn't see you there—I—" I choked, feeling as if all the breath had been stuffed down my lungs. "_Mom_?"

The woman—brown hair, a few shades lighter than my mother's, and wide eyes—recoiled, staggering back. "Bella—no, you—who're _you_?"

Andromeda Tonks. Mom's younger sister. I hesitated, wondering if I should answer that or not; the train decided that for me, whistling one last time in warning.

"Sorry," I said again before clambering into the train. The doors closed behind me; grimacing as I joined the throng of students looking for a place to sit, I wondered what I was apologizing for. Whether it's because for my mom who'd kill her daughter and son-in-law or because I had ran into her.

Dragging my trunk after me, I tried not to think about it.

* * *

As the sky darkened, I steadily became a bundle of knotted nerves. Knots that tangled even further and grew in size. I felt as if my stomach had dropped out of me, so I didn't feel hungry and declined the polite offers. I was sitting in a compartment with a few others.

I was surprised to find that I knew them. Well, not personally. Sitting on the opposite of me were Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecomb. The latter who trembled nervously every time I set my eyes on her—which I often did just to make her squirm in discomfort. Her mother worked with the Ministry and no doubt, she had heard of the Lestrange family and their imprisonment in Azkaban. Cho smiled uneasily at me but she didn't try too hard to strike up a conversation.

Beside me was a Slytherin shoo-in, Adrian Pucey.

He seemed disinterested in the girls—both of whom were half-bloods. We found out, rather quickly, that Cho's grandmother was a pureblood Britain witch who married a Japanese Muggle and Cho's mother was the result of their union, and said mother went on to marry a Chinese half-blood—did nothing to raise Cho's blood-status, she was still a half-blood with two parents of the same brood.

We knew so much because, apparently, Cho rambled when she was nervous.

Marietta Edgecomb was the daughter of a Muggle-born wizard and a half-blood witch. In a way, her blood was filthier than Cho's. Adrian stopped talking—or even looking—at them the moment he learned that. He only stayed because the other compartments were full.

"So, um," Cho suddenly said, breaking the silence that had been shrouding us for hours ever since the train started moving. "Which House do you want to be Sorted into?"

Marietta elbowed Cho but she ignored that. "Marie and I are looking forward to joining Ravenclaw. Our mothers were in Ravenclaw, that's how we met, you see—our moms were best friends so—"

"Do I look like I care?" snapped Adrian.

"She's just nervous," I said. "Adrian and I will most likely be in Slytherin," I directed my attention to Cho as I spoke. "Ravenclaw's not too bad." I glanced at Marie who flinched. "I haven't any words of wisdom from either of you though. Not to mention something I find very disconcerting—you became best friends because your mothers were? That doesn't sound right at all."

Adrian shifted, paying attention now.

"How did you know we were best friends?" Marietta shot me a terrified glance. "Can you read minds?"

"Are you kidding me?" Adrian interjected before I could say anything. "Your friend told us so when you introduced yourselves. Are you _sure_ you can make it into Ravenclaw?" Marietta scowled.

I snorted.

"Er, so, Rasalas"—Adrian made a noise of discontent, to which all three of us ignored, though I was a little weirded out, its not like he was my guardian, why does he bother so?—"what do you find worrying about how we became friends?"

"You make it sound like an obligation; it's the friends that you chose for yourself who will last a lifetime."

"I see," said Cho finally. "Then... then, um, do you think we can be friends?"

Adrian let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Are you _joking_, half-blood? There's no way Lestrange would—"

"Don't put words into my mouth," I warned him, narrowing my eyes at him. I had learned, from Dobby and Draco, that when I did that, my eyes were scary because of how bright they were—unnaturally so—but when I didn't get enough sleep, Draco commented that I could've put a monster to shame (I smacked him right after). Adrian fell silent. I turned back to the (soon-to-be) Ravenclaws. "It's not that I don't want to be friends, I'm just warning you not to make a mistake that you'd regret later. Everyone views Slytherin in a bad light and you'd be slandered too if you wish to befriend us."

Cho looked unsettled. "Really?"

"Yes," Adrian and I said in unison. "No doubt about it."

Marietta didn't say anything but her shoulders slumped in relief, obviously glad we wouldn't be seeing anymore of one another. Still, she kept casting curious glances at me.

"What?" I demanded after another five minutes of incessant staring.

"Do you have... er, non-human blood in you?" That was the longest sentence she'd spoken to me. I was mildly impressed.

"So you can speak after all," I said with icy sarcasm. "What makes you say that?"

"Your ears are slightly pointed—elf blood, perhaps?"

I gnashed my teeth together in anger. "Are—you—_trying_—to—pick—a—fight?" OK, I would be the first to admit that I was self-conscious about my appearance and might be narcissistic enough to feel very insulted and hurt whenever my appearance was criticized. I was sure I was good-looking in this body, alright? I'm not boasting without ground. Instinctively, my hands reached up to rub my ears. "How could I be related to a _house-elf_? Are you trying to _insinuate_ that the Lestranges bred with lowly creatures like _those_?"

I was beyond insulted, my lips twisted down into a sour frown. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees.

"No!" squeaked Marietta. "I don't mean those house-elves— I meant real elves—those that went extinct thousands of years ago!"

"Oh, possibly—sure, why not?" Adrian snorted into his hand. I scowled at him. "What?"

"You must love looking into the mirror," Adrian said, his lips twitching.

"No, I don't. I hate mirrors." I shuddered; I heard, combing your hair in front of the mirror struck midnight would summon unwanted things. I tried to avoid mirrors altogether; they were real bad luck.

"You can make it into Slytherin, Marietta, lots of self-preservation instincts you've got there," Cho said, grinning.

I ignored them, leaning to look out the window (which I had beaten Adrian to), eagerly awaiting the last few miles to reach Hogwarts.

**:: :: ::**

You won't believe my luck. Just as I stepped out of the Hogwarts Express, it started drizzling. I scowled at the sky. "The world's out to get me," I mumbled as I was carried away by the wave of students. I liked rainy days only when I was beneath a shelter. Tch.

"Firs' years, firs' years—this way, kids!" I saw a lamp swaying; I wondered if there were fairies too. As Adrian and I pushed our way to the front, I noticed with some disappointment that the light was from fire, nothing special. Again, the four of us were seated together in a boat as we set sail.

"I hope this is the last we see of one another," Adrian said icily.

"Hogwarts can't be that big," said Cho doubtfully. "There's bound to be a place where we can meet and chat about old times—"

"You sound old," I cut in.

Cho huffed, offended. "You don't talk about age with girls, Lestrange."

I smirked. "Why? No confidence?"

"That's a bit rich coming from someone who panicked when told there's the slightest possibility your ancestors were house-elves."

"Don't give me that," I said, irritated that she wasn't a bit more put-out like her friend Marietta was when confronted with a Lestrange. I liked being respected, thanks. "You would be horrified too."

Cho's cheeks flushed. "I don't like people who judged others by their looks alone! It's the beauty within that matters!"

"We're in the middle of a lake," I said sourly. "Unless you want to take a swim, I dare you to say more." Cho was not Gryffindor material; she crossed her arms, pursed her lips and said nothing. "Stop pouting," I sniped after a few minutes of silence and I estimated that we had crossed half the way there. "You look like a troll."

Her lips return to their ordinary shape.

"Please, you're touchy about your appearance too," Adrian pointed out, snorting. We exchanged grins.

"I'm a girl—it's justified!"

"Doesn't mean that boys want to look horrid," I put in.

"Ugh!"

Disgusted with us, Cho was the first to get off the boat. Smirking, Adrian and I followed only after Marietta had gotten off. We parted ways. I recognized a few faces and much to my chagrin, Alima Yaxley was among the first-years. I also saw Victoria Crabbe and Georgia Goyle; Terrence Higgs and Luke Travers stood behind Adrian and I.

_Ravenclaw can't be too bad..._ I thought as I purposefully fixed my eyes on McGonagall as she introduced herself, ignoring the girls.

"Sal!"

I jerked away before my brain registered what I was seeing. "Er... hello, Luella," I said uneasily to Luella Fawley who had, so far, been deemed acceptable in Uncle Lucius' eyes and I heard him and Mr. Fawley discussing appropriate dates. She was my fiancee (guaranteed). I felt like crying.

She pouted. "Sal, we haven't seen one another in so long and you won't even give me a hug?"

That was when the doors flew open and McGonagall came striding out, gazing critically at us before saying, "We're ready to receive you." If it was appropriate, I would've kissed her.

"As you can see... it's not the right time," I said, shoving Adrian forward and darting in after McGonagall.

Despite knowing what was waiting for me in the Great Hall, I was still amazed by the ceiling. It was a bright night, the stars were twinkling and I thought I could make out the constellation Orion. With my head facing up, it was amazing that I didn't trip over my own two feet.

Lestrange started with L so I had to wait a considerable amount of time. It was a good thing; not the first and not the last. I was glad I had such a last name.

My palms were sweaty when McGonagall finally called, "Lestrange, Rasalas!"

Adrian's eyes shot me a quick _good luck_ for which I was grateful for before I stepped forward. I had expected it to scream 'Slytherin' just as it touched my head, but it didn't. In fact, it seemed to latch on tighter.

_'My, my, what's this?'_ Amazement colored his tone and too late I realized he could see all of my memories. My hands clasped the brim of the hat, ready to throw it away or burn it, but I felt it clamping tighter around my head. _'Don't be afraid,' _it told me._ 'I don't go blabbing students' secrets to everyone. I'm just... surprised. There's a large portion of your memory that's been blocked. Did you do that?'_

Amazed myself, I stopped trying to pull it off. '_What do you mean? You can't— tell that I have memories about, y'know, unnatural stuff eleven-year-olds shouldn't know?"_

The hat squeezed my head briefly before letting go, going limp. _'Aye, it's powerful magic at work. Well, nothing I can do about it, I suppose, until you wish to tell me?'_

I snorted._ 'Nice try.' _I made a mental note to find out why the Hat couldn't see into my past life though. What magic at work is this? The magic of Desperation?

_'Fine. For the Sorting... let's see... both your parents were in Slytherin but that doesn't mean much... um, fear of ghosts and girls? Excuse me.'_ It started snorting and giggling in my ear and I felt appropriately disgusted. There had better not been saliva or snot.

_'Just put me in Slytherin and be done with it.'_

_'You've leadership qualities and clever enough I suppose... but you don't give me the impression that you're one who's particularly inclined to do anything, no ambition, no—'_

_'Just—'_

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Thank you," I mumbled, removing the Hat and placing it back on the stool. I rolled my shoulders, realizing that I had been stiff as statue during my Sorting; I made my way to the Slytherin table where cheers greeted me.

I smiled weakly.

I hope I'd found temporary home.

**:: :: ::**

**EDITED: 17 November, 2014.**


	5. iv

****Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling**  
**

* * *

**The Estranged Star  
**by GaleSynch

**Chapter 4  
**

* * *

Adrian and I were in the same dorm. I knew him only for a short while but I felt relieved when I realized we would be rooming together. I liked him even though he could be obnoxious sometimes.

"Good night," I said to him.

Adrian looked surprised, but sleepiness won over his puzzlement over my sudden friendliness. He just nodded. "Mm. Night to you, too, Lestrange."

"It's Rasalas."

He mumbled something incomprehensible, not even bothering to pull his hangings together before falling asleep on his pillow. I pulled my hangings before undressing and crawling under the covers, hearing the muffed sounds of the other boys doing the same.

I exhaled a sigh of contentment and allowed the magic of Hogwarts to lull me to sleep.

I needed the rest because the whole school was against me. Every Muggle-born had been warned against my family and by extension, me. I saw the other students giving me a wide berth but the Slytherins nodded at me and some stopped long enough to give me directions to my classes.

I had Potions on my first day: talk about bad luck. I knew he favored Slytherins but I was uncertain about Snape's relationship with my parents, and what of his Legilimency skills?

The moment I arrived in the classroom, I tugged Adrian and urged him to sit with me in the back of the class—also, no one would be able to hex me from this vantage point of view. I knew for a fact no one sat behind me so I was saved from being hexed from behind.

I glanced to the side as Hufflepuffs filtered in, looking nervous and whispering among themselves. I bet they were scared shitless. I rolled my eyes as one of them cast me a frightened glance, squeaked and fled to the front corner of the room.

Then Snape entered.

It wasn't as bad as I'd originally imagined. He treated me indifferently and if I made mistakes in the potion, he just pointed it out ("Don't stir so roughly, Lestrange. Count the seconds. That's not a full stir.") and swept off to terrorize the Hufflepuffs—he really favored the Slytherins.

However, being extra-sensitive, I could sense that Snape was always keeping an eye on me.

And so did the other teachers: their eyes were always on me, I was always in their peripheral vision (or other angle of vision) in classes. I spent the rest of my time in the library, reading. And Madam Pince was always right to be suspicious of me since I kept reading up on DADA—at least, more than I concentrated on other subjects.

**-0-**

Being at Hogwarts offered a lot of opportunities.

I was especially curious about the Room of Requirement. But I did not approach the place immediately. I was more concerned about not getting lost, reading up to catch up in class, finishing homework and studying extra material. I structured my schedule and education from my inevitable career as a Death Eater.

Which automatically meant being a master in Dark Arts and the Defense against it. However, I still had to take into account my stamina, reflexes and speed.

And what better way than to run?

Seeing actual ghosts in Hogwarts crept me out very badly. I especially hated—feared—the Bloody Baron even though all of the Hogwarts ghosts were tame and could not actually do me harm. So I had nightmares; the terror exemplified by Dobby's absence. I never told anyone—and who would listen really?—but Dobby was my best and only friend, which was just sad.

I found my reprieve on the fourth day, right after waking up from a nightmare. Running. I ran around the expanse of Hogwarts: the Great Lake and the outline of the Forbidden Forest. I was surprised to find myself paying attention when Binns was speaking.

I always woke up early—six in the morning at the latest—and it may be because of the frequent nightmares of dying, of watching my parents die, of watching the whole world crumbling, but my eyes were always permanently smeared purple-blue.

It took me nearly a week to gather my courage and shake off the paranoia that Dumbledore might have his crooked nose hovering invisible over my shoulder—no way I was that important for him to personally spy on me using a Foe Glass—and approach the Room of Requirement.

I only have a vague idea in mind when I paced before the patient.

So I was completely gobsmacked when the room transformed into an arena. I closed the door, dragging my jaw from the floor to inspect the place. I saw golden statues, thin golden sticks that could've been wands in their hands, surrounding the circular room.

Off to the side were shelves of books. I wandered over and pulled a random book out, reading its title. A Dark Arts book which probably could only be found in the Restricted Section or the Durmstrang library.

Perfect.

And there was even a tubular slide that led down to my bed. I stumbled upon it by chance: curious about the hole in the middle of the ground, I'd just looked down and stuck a hand in. I certainly had not expected to lose my grip and fall.

Regardless, that room soon became my haunt.

I didn't give up my daily morning routine of jogging though. I knew wizards and witches considered it beneath them to be running. Quidditch, their sport, was played on brooms so there was no need to build their stamina and strength in legs. Pity they didn't think to run just to ensure they could dodge spells in a duel.

Lord Voldemort was rising.

It was my third week in Hogwarts when I was stopped by someone—very gigantic.

"Hey, Lestrange!"

I turned, panting, clutching the stitch in my side, and looked towards the source of the voice. I was startled to find Rubeus Hagrid, gamekeeper of Hogwarts, waving at me from his hut. My brain whirred, wondering why he wanted to talk to me. I was three feet away when I spoke, "I wasn't about to go into the Forest. I was just running."

"I know," said the half-giant, squinting down at me. His beetle-black eyes were narrowed but not in suspicion or hatred, just plain curiosity. "I've bin' watchin' yer. Why duh' ye keep runnin? An' so early, too. Aren't yer ev'a sleepy?"

I ran a hand through my sweaty hair. "Me ... running? It's freeing. Maybe that's how flying is like." I bit my tongue to stop the other reason from escaping the deepest confines of my heart: so that I could escape all my troubles. "And no. It makes me more energetic than sleepy, honestly."

"So tha's makeup 'den?" Hagrid asked, gesturing to my eyes.

It was such an old joke I laughed wryly. "That's a better assumption than being losing a fist-fight."

Unexpectedly, perhaps infected by my laugh, Hagrid smiled too. "I think yer should be goin' back ter school. Classes're startin'."

"Yeah, bye!" I waved, running back to the castle.

**-0-**

Eventually, after another week, Hagrid offered to keep my school uniform in his hut so I could wear other clothes and not stink of sweat when I enter class. He was so kind I agreed. In truth, I liked smelling like sweat: it kept the girls at bay.

I sort-of became friends with Hagrid: a friendship I was sure my mother would not find impressive.

Problem was, I was unsociable. Not because I was fierce or evil. But because my parents' reputation chased everyone away. I had expected no less than vicious insults, jeers and avoidance from the Gryffindors—and I was not disappointed—but I had though I would at least get along with the Ravenclaws, especially since Cho and Marietta were there.

But they were G-I-R-L-S.

I wasn't sexist since I was a girl myself (well, in mind), but the thought that I would be required to have sex or love girls in a romantic way always crept up to me when I came within two feet of them.

As if I needed another reason to be a freak.

I wasn't a social butterfly either. My smile was awkward and as frozen stiff as the ice I was so adept at making. I probably looked like a banshee, especially with those black rings.

But, but—I simply didn't have the time. Even spending time like bantering with Adrian, avoiding and making excuses for the girls, eating in the Great Hall with the other chattering students, and doing homework felt like time wasted. Precious, precious time I could use to get stronger, to ensure my parents and I could live to our ninetieth birthday.

Friendship and a life in general were what I had traded to ensure my own life down the line—by barricading myself in the Room of Requirement, training, running and studying and repeating—and when I glanced back: I was all alone. There weren't even anyone in front of me.

"Hey, I'm doing the smart thing, right ... ?" I was speaking to the golden statue: the statue that replicated the spell I shot at him and he would fight back. "I want to live so I spend every moment I had to spare here ... no friends ... it's worth it."

And I bit my tongue to hold back the question. It couldn't answer me anyway.

**-0-**

Could Draco be considered my friend?

I wasn't sure. We were cousins—he was annoying—and even if we weren't cousins and didn't know one another by default, he still would be the type of people I wouldn't associate myself with. And the letters I sent back home was obligatory; my whole relationship with little Draco could be summed up in one word: obligatory.

Regardless, I held the letter in my hand, ready to owl it to Draco.

I was so deep in thought I didn't notice the girl—A GIRL!—until I ran right into her.

The sound I made probably shattered a few glasses down in the Great Hall. I'd leapt so far back, I nearly fell off the Owlery. I stared, in horror, at the older teen.

She, too, was gaping at me. I was slowly unwinding as I studied her peculiar appearance. She had a pretty face surrounded by unique pink hair and sparkling grey eyes. Her hair was turning blue with each passing second though.

She broke the silence first. "I thought ... I heard a girl scream?"

"... That was me. The scream resounded after we ran into one another."

She looked baffled. "Why did you scream?" she asked, warily.

"... Because you're a girl," I mumbled. She heard me anyway. We didn't need introductions: we were cousins. I knew her from the books and she knew me from the Sorting. I'd never met her until today though. I dimly wondered if she looked even remotely like my aunt Andromeda—I hadn't gotten a good glimpse of Mrs Tonks to properly remember her.

Nymphadora Tonks was slowly, but surely steering past the route of hesitation and suspicion; she was wandering into the curious zone. "I'm a girl, yeah. So? Don't tell me you're scared of girls?"

I staunchly refused to answer, trying to step around her to enter the Owlery when my feet stepped on something slippery; fortunately, I did not trip but something else happened. This time, it was Tonks who gave an ear-piercing shriek. I quickly retreated, hand reaching for my wand. "What is it?" I asked, baffled.

But Tonks wasn't looking at me; her wide-eyed gape of horror was directed at the ground: where the remains of what seemed to have been cake lied on the cobbled ground.

"You should've watched where you were going," I offered her as consolation.

Ordinarily, one who had been offered their condolences would probably say "Thanks" or admit their mistake but Tonks rounded on me like it was _my_ fault. "What?" she hissed. "_You_ were the one who ran into my back!"

"Yeah?" I made a face at the memory of touching her. Oh, look ... goosebumps were rising on my arms ... "I wouldn't touch you if the choice was between that and falling into a pit of lava."

Her hair and cheeks turned completely red. "YOU BIGOTED PURE-BLOOD SUPREMACIST JERK! You ruined my dad's birthday gift!"

"Quiet," I hissed. "I hear people—don't make a scene—!"

Tonks was on a roll; she ignored me and continued yelling: "—try to pin the blame onto me AND you won't even apologize! I can't believe I thought I would approach you!"

I stared. "Why would you want to come near me?"

"Why? Maybe because I thought you look pathetically ALONE and I pity you!"

"Stop shouting." I crossed my arms defensively across my chest. "You can just get him something else."

"That's his favorite cake," groaned Tonks, falling to a crouch, hands covering her face, "I finally managed to sneak into the kitchen to get one and this happens ... and I promised him, too. I'm a horrid daughter."

I made sure there was at least a feet distance before I crouched to inspect the damage. "You're so melodramatic it's not even funny," I sniffed. She shot me an evil look. "It _doesn't_ have to be a cake." I clasped my hands, reaching for the cold from beneath my heart, and dragged it out— "Here." I needn't have spoken to draw her attention: from when the wing was completed, her attention had already been caught.

"I- that—how did you DO that?"

The ice sculpture of a swan was not larger; it was only slightly larger than my palm. I put it in front of Tonks and retracted my hand quickly when she reached down to take it, inspecting it further.

"Well, consider that my apology. Just send him that until you can get another cake." I really didn't see what the fuss was about but I suppose it was because I didn't have a dad to send birthday gifts to. I stood, picking up my letter and stepped into the Owlery.

It was several minutes before Tonks could join me; she had the look of one being pleasantly surprised. "You're really giving it to me?" she asked, as if this was a very fishy thing to do indeed.

"Yes," I said, picking an eagle owl to do the work. I tied it to its leg as I spoke, "Since you insist that it's my fault, I feel that I must repay you."

"Well, thanks," she mumbled, as my owl took flight. "So, tell me?"

I shifted from foot to foot, awkwardly. "What?"

"Why're you scared of girls?"

"I'm not—" I backed away very quickly when Tonks reached out to touch me. She shot me a triumphant look. "Fine. I just ..." I trailed off, deciding to settle on a childish answer that did not require much explanation. "Girls have cooties."

"I am a young woman."

"With your demeanor, no one would know," I muttered.

"Hey!"

"Goodbye," I said, finality sewn into my tone of voice just to end the unintended conversation there.

**-0-**

"That was really an impressive piece of work." If I ignore my cousin, she'd probably go away ... probably ... "How's your Transfiguration works so far? Did Professor McGonagall grade you with an O, or at least an E?" How to escape when I was sitting at the Hufflepuff table? Sandwiched by Tonks and a second-year Hufflepuff I did not recognize. What a torture. "Why aren't you talking?"

Tonks tried prodding me but I pointed my wand at her, derailing her aim.

"Look, just because I didn't hex you on sight like my mother would've ordered me to do," I paused to let the fact that I'm still Bellatrix Lestrange's son sink in, "doesn't mean that I wouldn't," I continued, trying to sound as threatening as possible.

"I just wanted to talk," huffed Tonks. "You aren't as bad as I imagined you to be."

My grip on my wand didn't relax as I was acutely aware of how the teachers' gaze flitted to me occasionally and how the Hufflepuffs were extremely uneasy in my presence. "Bad? What do you define as bad might not actually be so to me," I returned, voice tight.

"I guess you'd consider torturing Muggles and Muggle-borns as good sport, eh?" Tonks' voice was suddenly drenched in malice and bitterness.

I glanced down at my plate of food. "But I don't like torturing." I saw Tonks tensing. "I stopped Mom and Dad when they were torturing the Longbottoms. If they had continued, Alice Longbottom would've been in a worse condition. She's just suffered amnesia, didn't she? And she's recovering rapidly courtesy to the legal use of Pensieve."

"That means you're a good person then." This coming from someone I did not know.

I turned to see the second-year boy. He gave me a friendly smile and extended his hand. "I'm Cedric Diggory, second-year at Hogwarts. Nice to meet you, Rasalas."

When I did not shake his hand, he just took my hand and shook it for me. He didn't let go or stop shaking until I spat out, "Nice to meet you, too."

"You should smile," Cedric encouraged and Tonks nodded encouragingly, "you'll make more friends that way."

"I don't want friends," I scoffed.

"Not wanting doesn't equate to not needing," Cedric pressed. I scowled at him, finding his childish bit of wisdom to be very irritating and most likely accurate too. I probably would just shrug it off if that phrase had came from someone else. But this was Cedric Diggory, pride of Hufflepuff and Golden Boy of Hogwarts: the amount of friends and admirers he had hadn't stopped him from being killed by Peter Pettigrew.

Thinking about the bitter irony made me smile. "Really." _Well, Diggory, if you had spent the time training instead of making friends and helping first-years or poking your nose into troubled people's concerns, you might've lived to see your grandchildren being born._

"I'll prove it to you," he said resolutely. "I'll be your first friend."

"Just give up, Diggory," I groaned. "I don't want a bug around me."

"I'm not a Muggle-born," he told me. "I'm a half-blood."

"Screw off. I'm not talking about blood purity."

"I'm not giving up on you," Cedric assured me.

And for the rest of my school years, he held up the promise to annoy me.

**-0-**

Cedric was not alone in his attempts: Tonks also made a continual effort to talk to me. It was becoming harder and harder to sneak into the Room of Requirement. Once Cedric had realized I was avoiding him in the halls, he'd taken to waiting outside my classrooms and one memorable time to camp outside the Slytherin Common Room.

"You really have nothing better to do, don't you?" I asked, amused and annoyed as I quickened my pace.

Cedric pushed himself forward, panting. More than half a year of the same routine had obviously helped me run longer and pace myself better but Cedric didn't have a stamina as good as mine. "I ... _wheeze_ ... have something to do ... _wheeeze_ ... you sure this'll help pay attention in class ... ?"

"It works for me," I told him.

"Hope it does for ... _pant_ ... me ... "

"Come on, we're close to Hagrid's. We can freshen up with herbal tea—which tastes like goblin's piss, just to warn you."

Cedric made an odd, continuous sound: I was shamed to say that it took me awhile to realize he was laughing, out of breath as he was. I didn't know why I was so surprised when I heard him laugh. Maybe it was because I didn't think I was remotely funny, or it was because it had been a long time someone had laughed so genuinely in my presence—a sound of genuine pleasure borne of a healthy activity instead of sadistic laughter I'd heard my mother let loose before.

"What?" I asked, slightly self-conscious.

"Relax, I'm not laughing at you," Cedric said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I was just laughing because you finally said 'we'."

"So?" His answer just puzzled me more.

"Well, just two days ago, you told me that there would never be a 'we'."

I let out an angry huff. "Slip of tongue, Diggory, I assure you, it won't happen again." My words were as cold as the North Pole but it did not freeze him in his spot; he just patted my back and ran after me and I picked up the pace.

You must be wondering why I acted like such a jerk towards someone who finally showed an interest and wanted to befriend me. The answer was simple: if I acknowledged him, his attempts to better me, he would consider his job done. Right now, in holier-than-thou, heart-purer-than-ice Cedric Diggory viewed me as a broken glass that needed to be pieced together with the utmost care.

(I absolutely refuse to admit I wanted his presence there.)

Once he was done, he'd leave for the higher skies.

**-0-**

* * *

**Updated: **9 December 2014

**Question:** Who do you want to see Rasalas interacting with?

**Review!**


	6. v

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling**

**-THE ESTRANGED STAR-**

CHAPTER FIVE

\/

"Would you look at that? This bubbling idiot was made Minister!"

I ignored Adrian's mocking snort. The Daily Prophet was being delivered at every table; Cornelius Fudge, the newest Minister of Magic, had his mug pasted on the front page beneath a catchy tagline I found sickening. I didn't subscribe because I could easily borrow from perfectly willing individuals: my cousin Tonks, Cedric, Hagrid and Adrian. Actually, my Housemates were friendly lots and they helped when you asked nicely.

I was more interested in the absence of Quirinus Quirrell; Charity Burbage had replaced him as the Muggle Studies teacher.

As I was only a first year, I had not interacted with Quirrell sans meal-times where we sat in the same Great Hall.

I grimaced as I imagined him, hopeful and shy but not a stuttering wreck yet, walking to his death.

"Wotcher, Sal!"

Out of long practice, I dodged her outstretched hand, scaring away the barn owl that'd delivered Adrian's Daily Prophet. He shot the Hufflepuff half-blood a foul look, shifting away. We got along fine but he would never accept anyone below pure-blood status to interact amiably with.

"Morning, _Nymphadora_."

Predictably, she scowled. "I told you to stop calling me that."

"I'll stop if you stop trying to touch me."

"It's funny; it's a joke everyone is in on."

I flushed. I hated how I was turning into a running joke because of Tonks. The one time she'd jumped me in the halls and I'd shrieked, everyone had noticed that I was afraid of girls. The newest trend for girls: try hugging Rasalas Lestrange and he'd show you how a girl _screamed_.

No, nothing dirty at all.

"I hate you."

Tonks smiled. "So, are you coming or not?"

"You'll be infected by them, Rasalas," Adrian interjected. "Don't."

Tonks' smile tightened at the sides as her furious magenta eyes zeroed in on my roommate. "Nobody asked _you_."

"As a fellow who cares about his year mate, I feel inclined to point out that Muggle suburban makes it hard to practice magic at home." Adrian's dry tone did little to appease Tonks.

She'd invited me to spend the summer with her family. With my aunt Andromeda. And the uncle who'd gotten her blasted off the tree. I hadn't returned to the Malfoys for any sort of holidays but for summers, it was a must for everyone.

"…Yeah, I think I will."

Tonks reached out to pat my back but I shied away, nearly squirming under the Slytherin table to do so. She pulled back with a roll of her eyes. "I'll owl my folks; we can bring you back straight away from King's Cross. I expect you don't want to go back to the Malfoys so soon?"

I nodded mutely. From the bits and pieces I'd reluctantly parted with, both she and Cedric had puzzled out I wasn't exactly fond of Draco and Lucius. Draco was more bearable though.

"Catcha later," said Tonks, bouncing off to class. She was the only one carefree honestly. While the NEWTs were over with, I could see the seventh-years were still stressed about how they'd performed during the exams and were still discussing what had gone by.

Tonks intended to be an Auror. A career that led to her death.

I swallowed a thick lump in my throat, suddenly finding the stack of blueberry pancakes in front of me to be extremely tasteless. Why was everyone I'm talking to will die? Except for Hagrid and possibly Adrian. Knowing they'd die never failed to put a damper in our relationship and my mood during our talks. I positively shut down when Tonks and Cedric even came close to talking about death.

"Sal!" As this body was not trained to dodge boys, Cedric crashed into me from the back, arms threatening to wrangle the life out of me. "We'll pick you from the Tonks at the end of July okay? Then you can stay the rest of August with us!"

"I think I'll have to tough through at least at the Malfoys before being allowed to come back to Hogwarts," I said, smiling weakly. Awkwardly. I hadn't asked my guardians for permission; I intend to inform them at the end of the school year. That way, they would have little room of time to argue.

"Cool. Catch you later." Cedric grinned and loped off.

Adrian finally straightened in his seat, eyeing me dubiously. "Why do you befriend a load of duffers?"

"…I didn't. But if I don't humor them, they can get even more unbearable."

Adrian winced. "Not as bad as the Weasleys."

Oh shoot. I sprang to my feet. "I've got to go." I was horrified—how much time had I lose? I scrambled out of my seat, stumbled, but I made a bee-line for the entrance of the Great Hall. I didn't stop to check if anyone pursued.

Because, obviously, from the sound of feet stampeding the Great Hall, cutting across the distance—I was being pursued.

"Oh Lestrange!"

"Sally! Won't you give us a hug to brighten our day?"

"Don't _call_ me that!" I screamed before trip jinxes burst into sparks at my feet, tripping me. While I was quick on my feet, falling had cost me valuable seconds. Before I could shriek, I was being hugged from all sides—practically _smothered_.

I shoved my elbow into Fred Weasley's gut—or it was George Weasley, I couldn't tell. "Stop!" My senses were shrieking; girls were touching me. They were too close! _Too close!_

I jerked my head around to stare at the flock of Gryffindors bullying me: Fred Weasley had a mop of grey on his hair. Splotches of blush on his cheek and overdone lipstick made his mouth red all over. George was done up in a similar manner but he had made the effort to turn the color of his mop Slytherin green; I could still see tufts of red hair though. They hadn't done up their disguises properly.

You must be baffled.

Why did they bug me so?

They happened to be there when Nymphadora exposed my biggest weakness and they obviously thought it was good fun. Constantly jumping at me, mocking me with girly make-ups and actually recruiting girls to help them.

A true Gryffindor does not pass up the chance to humiliate a Slytherin.

("Look, what have I ever done to you?! My parents didn't kill the Prewetts!"

"Oh, well, it's less about what you and your whole family've done than the fact that you're easy to pick on. Right, Gred?"

"Right you are, Forge!")

In the series, the twins had always been portrayed from Harry's point of view. To Harry, the Weasleys were obviously kind people and he thought they were up to harmless pranks. To me, a Slytherin and son of certified Death Eaters though, they were nothing short of vicious.

But they always knew when to toe the line.

See?!

I was in the middle of the Great Hall and none of the Professors were helping me! Bias at its finest, I'm telling you.

("Should this even be allowed, Albus? Using spells out of class—"

"Ah, well. The rules did explicitly state that magic is not allowed in hallways. Technically, this isn't the hallway."

"True, Pomona." _Shriek!_ "… They are merely expressing their love for their friend, Minerva. I'm sure Mr Lestrange appreciates them though he is shy to show it."

"… Mr Lestrange is currently screaming as if he's under the Cruciatus Curse."

"Exaggeration, Severus."

"He went limp. Did he suffocate?"

"What a _horrible_ tragedy that would be." Pause. "I suppose we should put an end to that bout of … affection … for today, Dumbledore? The Gryffindor brats are supposed to spend the morning with me in the dungeons. It would be unfortunate for them to even miss a single second of what I can inculcate into the empty space they call brains.")

**~{V}~**

By some sort of miracle, I managed to escape and get to class. I was lucky today's first lesson was History of Magic and Binns never cared about tardiness. I was disheveled and sweaty as I slumped into my usual seat beside Adrian, exhausted.

"You shouldn't let them push you around," said Adrian. He was pretty talkative to me.

I huffed. "I'm not creative. Unless I'm to throw Dark magic at them. If I did, they'd go blabbing to Dumbledore."

Adrian smirked. "One might think you actually love the attention," he drawled.

I grimaced my disgust. "Trust me, I get enough of this from my cousin." Draco always liked hanging off my arm like a handbag. A loud, big and insufferable handbag.

…

I really didn't want to know how he'd react to finding out I wasn't going to spend that much time at the manor.

**~{V}~**

Somehow, even though I went out of my way to avoid such, I always caused a scene. Case in point: at the end of my first year, there was this big, unnecessary family reunion.

"SAL!" I could hear Draco wailing a mile away. Even before the train pulled to a stop, Draco was already at the entrance. The only reason he hadn't bounded up to search for me was because students were milling out. I wondered if it was too late to hide in the train and let it cart me back to Hogsmeade.

Adrian pushed my trunk into my hands. "What're you so afraid of? You're at the top of the year," he said. A tad enviously. He'd come in third after Cho Chang.

I owe it to my Charms, Transfiguration, Potions and DADA that pull my marks up. I nearly killed my plant in the practical portion of the test and it was only because she pitied me that Professor Sprout passed me with an A(cceptable). I scrapped by History of Magic with Cho's help. The other subjects weren't O's but way better than my Herbology marks.

"It's my cousin … why would he be here?" I mumbled distractedly. "I told them I was going with my other cousin back home."

"For the same reason I told you to decline in the first place," answered Adrian, as if it couldn't be any more obvious. "They might corrupt you. And you're not that steady to begin with."

"I have other more important things to prioritize than blood, alright?" I rolled my eyes.

Rosier clicked his tongue. "Is that what the Heir of the Lestrange House should be saying?"

I sat in the compartment with my roommates and while they could be unbearable at times—such as now—I generally didn't go out of my way to be friendly. It just reinforced my title as the Ice Prince or some sort of crap they came up with.

"I see your cousin," said Montague, peering out of the window. I was crouched below it, sighing mournfully. He nudged me with his foot as the others bustled out, joining the steady line streaming out of the train. "Hurry up before he climbs up, mate."

"Fine."

"Sal!" I returned Draco's hug most unenthusiastically. He was unperturbed. I met Lucius' cold, cold eyes and I felt a scowl hardening my visage. "Let's go back! We came to rescue you!"

"I didn't need any rescuing," I said immediately, frowning at my blonde-haired aunt. She smiled but there was a hard edge in her eyes.

"Associating with filth like—"

"She's your sister!" I interrupted hotly.

"And Narcissa is your aunt," hissed Lucius angrily, "You _will_ treat her with the utmost respect."

Narcissa placed a hand on Lucius' arm; her soothing touch tempered some of his anger. "Sal," she began kindly, gently—lulling me into a false sense of security to trick me. I was instantly on guard. "We only wish to spend more time with you. Surely, if there's anything you want to know about your mother, I can answer them better than Andro—that woman can? I knew your mother longer. Far better. We shared the same views."

I peeled Draco off me, spotting Nymphadora waving. Her brows rose when she saw the company I was keeping. Then her expression sharpened into clear understanding: _if you need help, shout and I'll come. _Flanking her were her parents. Envy stabbed me hot and hard.

"Look," I said, stepping away from them, "You've indoctrinated into me about blood-purity enough. I won't be corrupted by anything—not anymore. I have a firm view of what I believe in."

Draco's eyes bulged. "But—"

For him, I made an effort to soften my eyes. Even though my whole body was tense and my skin prickled. People were staring, whispering—and they were definitely not being subtle. I ruffled Draco's hair, mustered a painful smile, and then I turned and walked away.

Every step weighed heavily.

(And Andromeda—my mother's likeness staring straight at me—opened her arms wide, as if welcoming me home)

(And, and in that very moment, I could honestly believe it was my mother reaching out to embrace me)

(I grinned and ran towards her)

**~{V}~**

The Tonks were everything the Malfoys were not: laidback, warm, lively. Ted Tonks and his daughter together were a riot. Jokes in every third and fifth sentences. Friendly and unbiased; just the way I like them.

The moment he'd greeted me at the station, I knew I liked him. Ted grinned and held out a hand for me to shake. "Oh." No wary or guarded looks. He did not size me up for any inch of prejudice before he extended a hand. I managed a more sincere smile than the one I'd given the Malfoys and accepted his large, callused hand. "Hello. It's nice to meet you Mr Tonks—"

"Call me Ted, Rasalas. My daughter spoke a lot about you in her letters."

I shifted my eyes to rest on Nymphadora. She winked at me. "I'm sure you know my Mum over there."

"Oh, yes. Aunt—may I call you that?"

"Aunt Dromeda is fitting…" Her smile carried traces of awkwardness. Noticing my questioning glance, she said, "I'm not used being addressed as an aunt. Ted doesn't have any siblings and, well, I suppose you know about my estrangement with my family."

"That's an understatement," I mumbled. Andromeda acted as if she hadn't heard me.

"Here, let me carry your trunk," offered Ted.

"I can manage!" I insisted. "Are we going by Floo?"

"Nope," said Nymphadora cheerfully. "We're going by car. Dad drives. I figure you might want to see Muggle London—scenery and all." She may be smiling but I knew she was gauging me carefully for my reaction. To be honest, I was rather excited.

I had never seen London before. I wasn't even a native European in my past life. I nodded a bit too eagerly. "Okay!"

**~{V}~**

During summer, there was always a chance that I caught the flu and though I hoped being out of the stuffy mansion would help, it didn't.

I whimpered pathetically as I pressed my cheek deeper into the floor of the guest room in the Tonks' modest two-storey house. "Sal, don't do that," chided a gentle voice. Dazed by heat, I stirred only mildly. My aunt's hand was cool on my heated skin.

"Where's … Dora…?" Promised me games. Electronic games. PS2, computer—_finally_, the technology I loved that I had been deprived of for so many years, at the tip of my fingers once more.

"She went to the Ministry to apply for Auror School. Her results came back and she got all the NEWTs needed!" She was usually reserved and calm but there was no denying the pride underlining her words. I wondered what I had to do to make my mother proud. I'd probably have to kill or torture. I sincerely doubted Bellatrix would be proud about NEWTs results.

Maybe Dad and Uncle Rab would. Yeah, they would.

I groaned slightly as I was being hauled onto the bed. I was surprised to realize, belatedly, that I had not reacted negatively to Andromeda.

Was this because … she reminds me so much of Bellatrix…?

Her touch, her smile, her face: my mother in every gesture. But Andromeda lacked the sassiness, the cruel grace, the extremely heavy-lidded eyes.

"Mum," I breathed. Andromeda tensed. My hand was clasped around her wrist. Cooling, familiar. "Stay?"

"…Alright."

**~{V}~**

Andromeda didn't know how long she sat there, by her nephew's sickbed, simply staring at his youthful visage. Smudges around his eyes told her how little he slept. Nightmares haunted him, perhaps. She brushed his russet-toned hair out of his face, sighing slightly.

Andromeda had half-expected for Bella's son to be like her: ambitious to the point of ruthlessness, prejudiced. But no, he wasn't. She was glad for that but still, a part of her wished he had been cruel: looking at him, she couldn't help but think of the Bella before everything went to hell.

She touched Rasalas' cheek, felt the warmth of his cheek, before pulling away.

The tell-tale crack of Apparition at the backyard left no doubt as to who had come for a visit. Out of habit, she absentmindedly tucked her wand in her back pocket as she descended the stairs and headed to the kitchen. She pushed open the screen door, lips pursed.

Narcissa seemed to be too regal and rich to be allowed in her backyard. "Cissy," she said simply.

Her younger sister flinched as if struck. "Don't call me that," she snapped sulkily in response. Her cornflower blue eyes flickered around. "Where's _my_ nephew?"

"He's sick, so he's resting up in bed, obviously," Andromeda sneered slightly.

Narcissa bristled defensively. "How am I to know he's sick when I haven't seen him all summer?" she retorted.

Andromeda waved away her snipe. "What do you want?"

The blonde witch pursed her lips. "I intended to persuade Sal to come back. Draco has been … down. Very down."

The older sister grimaced. "Well, I can safely say he doesn't want to."

"He's in my custody, Andy!" Cissa nearly snarled. "Bella would never allow you to raise her precious son! You will only turn him into … into one of _you_." Her blue eyes glittered with tears. Andromeda wanted to wipe them away, cup her sister's cheeks, but she knew that time was long past now. "A blood-traitor. The worst; worse than Muggles! You who turned your back on family."

"Can't you tell Sal's miserable in your care?"

She bristled. "Preposterous! We gave him everything he needed—!"

"No, you didn't! Your never gave him the most crucial thing, what which he wants the most!" Narcissa set her jaw defensively forward but her eyes gave her away: she hadn't realized she'd neglected to fulfill one of Sal's needs. "_Love_, Cissa. I know. I can tell—Lucius wants him dead for the Black inheritance, your son admires Sal and you know very well that admiration is the furthest from understanding! Bella admired You-Know-Who but she never really knew who he was." Andromeda's face twisted in spite, in bitterness to what she'd lost. "A deranged murderer—he's no hero to pure-bloods."

"_I _love him," snapped Cissa.

"You don't, not really. You view him as a measuring stick, a remnant of the past. You want your son to use him as a role-model, to compare—as you often did with us, Narcissa." She scowled at her sister. "He craves my comfort. Have you ever noticed how much he misses his mother? You never talk about Bella; it's too painful a subject for you to breach. You've always been weaker, Narcissa."

"Silence!" hissed the fair sister, injured. "I … I—"

"Leave, Cissa. You're _not_ welcome here."

"Just as you're not welcomed in pure-blood society anymore," Narcissa snapped but her retort fell short; she was put-out.

Andromeda couldn't help but lament that her younger sister never really toughened up. Bella was tough to begin with. Andromeda had to learn and grow strong she did; Ted taught her what true strength was. The strength to break away from all she knew to embrace what she wanted, to reach higher peaks.

"One thing." Andromeda paused from where she was about to close the door. She glanced suspiciously at her sister. She knew Narcissa stood no chance against her in a duel but attracting Sal's attention was the last thing she wanted. And apparently, so did Narcissa. "Is Sal … will he recover?"

"It's just a cold," she assured Narcissa.

"Next time," Narcissa hesitated, "You can fill me in on what he needs. If you're so adamant you can do a better job."

She Disapparated.

Andromeda was stunned. That … coming from Narcissa was waving an olive branch with tears messing her pristine make-up.

…

Who did you come here for, Cissy?

(Even though she thought it was time Rasalas got some love from the aunt with his legal rights, she couldn't help but wished Cissy had came for her instead)

(It couldn't be … right?)

**~{V}~**

After spending a month in a Muggle environment, I felt … refreshed. Somehow reborn, whole and complete once more in the sense that I finally felt a sense of completion. I wore Muggle clothes and I ate at fast-food joints. I went to Muggle fairs, to their stores and cinemas. I learned how to drive a car and ride a bike. Technically, I was underage but Ted was a bit of a rebel: he went ahead and taught it to me and I enjoyed the lessons.

I was Muggle-fied. If my Housemates found out, they wouldn't have approached me with a thirty-foot scepter. I nearly smiled at the thought.

In fact, I was a bit sorry to say goodbye to the Tonks and go to the Diggorys' instead. Andromeda swooped in to kiss my cheeks and forehead before I went through the Floo. I was startled by the display of affection. She smiled warmly. "Do write often," she advised, pushing me through the curtain of green flames.

"Sal, you made it!"

I spat powder out of my mouth. My knees ached from the harsh landing. Cedric pulled me up, helping me dust places I couldn't reach easily. "Jeez, you made it sound like I would've gotten lost in the fireplace without help," I muttered grumpily.

Cedric grinned. "I never underestimated you." He took hold of my arm and guided me to the dining room. I was busy taking in his sitting room: his whole family seemed to be from Hufflepuff, as the home was decked out in yellow and teakwood furniture. Homey and warm. "Mum, this is my friend from school: Rasalas Lestrange."

Mrs Diggory turned away from the stove. Her smile was stiff, eyes filled with wariness she was slow to hide. "Oh … good. Please, sit. Dinner will be ready in no time at all."

"Thank you." It was awkward already. They weren't remotely related to me. I knew that Mrs Diggory was a Muggle-born and had a few close shaves with Death Eaters that might've been my parents. Plus, she was the Longbottoms' friends, as Cedric had explained; naturally, she didn't give me the warmest of welcomes.

"Dad isn't back yet," continued Cedric conversationally, unperturbed by his mother's reception to his friend. "He's a friendly man." _Unlike my mother,_ went unsaid. His gray eyes cut to his mother's back. She was a pretty woman with Cedric's grey eyes and caramel-colored hair that streaked across Cedric's golden hair. "You'll like him Sal."

"I hope," I offered unenthusiastically.

Cedric drummed his fingers on the table. "How about we play Quidditch, Sal?"

I stared. "_Quidditch_?"

"You'll be a second-year next year—that means you're eligible to try out! What position do you think you'll excel in?" asked Cedric excitedly. Quidditch was his passion. He was the reserve Seeker for Hufflepuff but it won't be long before he became the permanent player on his team. "If you're a Seeker too, it's going to be a hype competition. Might motivate me more!"

"I've never actually…" Lucius had kept me on the ground. In case Draco fell so he could use me as a mattress. I grimaced at the memory. "I'm not sure if I'll be good."

"Mum, we're going out for a bit. Where's the spare broom?"

"In the attic, dear," Mrs Diggory—Carmine Diggory—was more sincere when her son spoke to her. "Be back before dark," she added. Motherly stuff I was used to hearing from Andromeda. Even though Nymphadora was practically an adult by now.

…

Most of my experience with a broom was to stand in the Malfoy Manor's backyard and wait to catch Draco if he fell. Which he never did. Damn.

First-years had flying lessons, of course, but I wasn't too thrilled about it. Not after falling and breaking my arm. I glanced apprehensively around us: the cover of twilight should mask us from Muggles well enough but that hardly eased my apprehension of losing the small golf-ball Cedric was intent on using.

He kept throwing out, "No worries! You'll do fine! It's simple—throw and catch! See?"

The ball went flying to who-knows-where. An awkward pause was all he offered when I hovered in air, feeling most vulnerable without my wand and having only a thin, hard stripe of stick beneath me. Not a reliable cushion if I fell. "… I see," I couldn't keep the humor out of my voice completely.

"Look, you have to _chase_ after it. Not remain stationary," Cedric reminded me, retrieving another ball from his pouch. "Ready?"

Might as well get this over with. "Fine," I grouched, tipping the broom down with a slight push on the broom handle. Terror jolted up my spine as it tipped and I shot down. Grinning that I was finally moving, Cedric flung the ball; I leaned to the side where I wanted to turn and the broom, surprisingly, obeyed without tipping too much.

I fumbled with the golf-ball that had dimples all over its body.

"Not bad, not Seeker material though," Cedric was brutally honest but he injected a sound apology into his tone. I did not mind; flying in the air and being the center of attention hardly counted as productive. I could spend the time training instead.

I smiled awkwardly, holding out the ball. "I throw and you catch this time?"

**~{V}~**

Amos Diggory was, as Cedric promised, more outgoing than this wife, asking me several questions about the Malfoys and how I had it at school. Then, when it was clear he'd exhausted every bit of interesting in me, he launched into a spiel about himself, his job, Cedric and the happenings of the world.

"… Harry Potter going to Hogwarts next summer, bound to be interesting, eh? Maybe he'll be in our old House, Hufflepuff!"

Amos was rather self-absorbed and conceited, I privately thought. Unable to stop the irony seeping into my words, "Or in Slytherin; after all, he might be the next Dark Lord, Voldemort might have went to kill him that fateful night to eliminate a strong competition," I smiled a sugary smile. "Pass the marmalade, please?"

Cedric gaped at me. Amos' eyes had popped open. I think Carmine was on the verge of passing out.

"…I was just joking," I added belatedly, punctuating my sentence with a rather weak laugh.

(I think there would be no more invitations from the Diggorys)

It was with a heavy heart that I bid Cedric goodbye at his fireplace. Amos had gone to work, leaving Carmine and Cedric to see me off. "I still don't think your family likes me much," I murmured as Cedric hugged me again. Were all Hufflepuff so touchy-feely?

Awkwardness traced his smile. "Um, well, the You-Know-Who joke was a bit too much. You shouldn't have forced yourself to grow a sense of humor; it comes naturally. Dad was thrilled about the ice fountain, really. Your conjuration is solid workmanship."

"It's not a branch of Transfiguration. For the last time, it's an extremely advanced, wandless branch of the Freezing Charm—freezing the moisture in the atmosphere to form a shape."

Cedric pulled away, but he kept his voice lowered. Head ducked to do so. Whispering? My ears pricked to listen properly. "If the Malfoys mistreated you, just say the word and I'll … well, Dad will … file a complaint or something."

"The thought is appreciated but … you forget, as always, that Lucius Malfoy is one of the members."

Cedric's arm jerked like it wanted to punch something—me?—but he desisted and his arm flopped to his side lifelessly.

"See you next week." He smiled painfully. I didn't know how to confront him about his grimace-like smile, not with his mother shooting pointed looks at me, like, _Get out now! Out! Out!_

I had one more week before summer ends. And even though I had to spend the last seven days with the Malfoys, it was the best summer I ever had.

Those thoughts crashed into the perfectly polished marble floor of Malfoy Manor the moment I stepped through and landed flat on my front.

A foot nudged me. I tensed when I realized it was my imposing uncle. To my growing sense of foreboding, neither Narcissa or Draco was around; Lucius was prone to more … nicer behavior when they were around. I pushed myself to my feet, weighed down only by the might of Lucius' glare.

Standing up, straightening my spine, I glimpsed something behind the column upholding the first floor of the manor: Dobby, bandaged most terribly with sickly bruises, peering out at me, one eye swollen and the other squinting in pain.

"You've came back." Between Lucius and a dragon, I had a hard time deciding which I would rather run to. Eyeing Lucius darkly and Dobby's pitiful state, I think a dragon would've dealt me a kinder fate. "Of your own accord. Your hosts didn't throw you out, I suppose?" Lucius was smiling, hands tucked behind him, wand not in sight.

My wand was in my pocket, luckily.

"Where're Draco and Aunt Cissa?"

"Diagon Alley," Lucius snapped curtly, "School begins next September. Have you gone shopping?"

"… No."

"Give me your school letter, I'll be sure to owl Narcissa immediately and ensure you've gotten your school things." I set my trunk on the floor, frowning warily, but did not disobey. "Dobby! Why don't you help your beloved … master? There's no need for you to kneel and rummage through your belongings, Rasalas." I stiffened, unsure as to why my instincts screamed danger when, for all to see, Lucius seemed rather passive in his ostensible fury.

The house-elf was beside me in an instant, the crack of his arrival making me wince. "Let Dobby, sir," he squeaked out, eyeing me fearfully. Not fear of me; fear _for_ me.

I tried not to jump through the fireplace again.

"Rasalas." Dobby was unlocking my trunk, opening it, revealing the clothes and treats Carmine had given me in a box. I didn't turn to look at Lucius even though I nodded absentmindedly. "_Rasalas_." A repeated call, and Lucius' hand was clamping on my shoulder, wrenching me to face him.

He hissed, eyes cold and voice like steel: "I do not tolerate disobedience under my roof, you ungrateful brat. You do what will be expected of you, this year. Do you understand me?" He shook me hard, rattling me. "Draco will not be tainted by the likes of _them_."

A loud bang interrupted us: Dobby had shut the trunk most violently, releasing me from the spell Lucius had cast on me to root me to the ground. Had he used the Imperius Curse? I caught myself from nodding, retreating quickly away from the man I would be forced to live with for another six years.

"You ignoramus creature!" Lucius kicked Dobby, inciting a yelp of pain from the house-elf I was so fond of; he was further injuring my first and most faithful friend. The lash of fury across my chest had me jumping in, tearing Dobby away from immediate reach.

I glared: Lucius was smoothing his robes, expression disdainful. "To consort with such creatures, it seems that I've failed to raise you well."

"_Raised_?" I repeated incredulously. "_You_ did nothing but put me down because you're jealous!" I shouted, ignoring Dobby's insistent tugging on my pants and his sobs. "I'm _better_ than your son; he will never begin to amount to anything_ I_ will become. Mark my words! My parents may be in Azkaban but when the Dark Lord rises again—_and he will!_—you know you'll pay for your disloyalty and I … I will be cast in a different light: he will reward my family, given places of honor, beyond all else!"

Dobby's sobs punctured the ominous silence the Dark Lord's name cast over us, like a dark cloud blocking the sun.

Lucius' face was sheet white: jackpot. I laughed and laughed. My chest was heaving. The excess of anger leaked out of me, too hot for me to be comfortable with. But I still laughed because I knew: I knew I'd won this round and _it felt so good_ why had I never stood up to him before? It didn't matter if I came off sounding like the deranged person my mother was—had already become—but the fear on his face was priceless.

"Come on, Dobby." The house-elf snuffled the rest of his misery and picked up my trunk. I gingerly held his hand, tenderly, and with a crack like a whip against a horseback, we reappeared in my room.

I was still smirking smugly but when Dobby heaved another dry sob, it ebbed into dismal misery. "Did he bully you too terribly?" I asked sympathetically, crouching to reach his height, patting his head gingerly.

Dobby's eyes widened adoringly. "Dobby can't speak ill of his wizard family." He sniffled, dabbing at his eyes with the yellowed bandages around his ruined fingers.

True, he couldn't do that, and I, for all the time I'd lived here, was merely a guest in the House of Malfoy. "Take off your bandages," I murmured quietly, "I'll replace them. _Ferula_!"

Dobby smiled and though it was an odd time to do so, it suddenly struck me that he had always carried a trace of forlorn in his inhuman features: even when he was supposedly happy that I considered him my best friend, he never looked truly free. But I couldn't free him, I was not family; only Lucius, Draco and Narcissa could do that.

"Master Las is so, so kind, so pure, so good," _Even if I am not your master and I'd never done anything to ease your treatment?_ I thought sardonically. I tried to smile like I was flattered though I ended up grimacing: Dobby didn't realize since he wasn't that well-versed in human expressions. "Dobby wills rather dies than lets Master Las come to harms."

My smile—grimace—fell faster than light. "… Die? _Me_? How?" Yeah, real eloquent of me.

Dobby's smile somehow became stronger, more confident. "Freedom, Master Sal, Dobby has learned does not only come in the forms of getting clothes from a house-elf's master, sir. Freedom for Dobby is doing what he wants to do, even if his orders go against that and wills result in his death."

"Dobby!" Alarm sprouted as quickly as mushrooms after rain. "Whatever you're planning on doing, _don't_."

Dobby beamed like a laser. "Not yet, Master Las! Dobby stills has to protect Master Las; Dobby is confident Master Las can overcome the first hurdle himself but Dobby shall always be there for the other hurdles! Good day, Master Las!" He bowed, low and deep, befuddling me before Disapparating.

I wanted to chalk it up to Dobby's tendency to overdramatize things he found good but I felt uneasy myself.

I looked at my trunk. Sighed and decided to repack. I had removed my clothes and parcels of sweets when I saw it—something I hadn't placed in my trunk.

It was an old book, blank cover, and at the back, it only showed the manufacturer's name: some shop in Vauxhall Road, London. I never brought anything from the Muggle shops the Tonks had brought me to.

My fingers were suddenly clammy with sweat as the memory of Dobby's nervousness returned, coupled with my foreknowledge. Fumbling ungracefully, the blank, blank, blank diary nearly slipping from my grip on its spine, I opened the front cover.

There, faintly: _T.M. Riddle._

**~{V}~**

* * *

_It's been far too long -.- But I finally got around to writing this. I'll like to give a shout-out to _Polka Pox_ who inspired me once more lol Finally got a substantial plot going. From next chapter on, things would veer quickly away from canon._

**Question: **Which do you think you're more partial to? TMR/Rasalas or Cedric/Rasalas?

**R&amp;R**


	7. vi

Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling

* * *

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

**_6_**

I didn't know how long I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the diary's blank pages that remained inanimate in my lap like a man obsessed, clasped hands supporting my forehead, elbows on my knees, digging in painfully but not awakening me from this nightmare.

Curiosity itched at the back of my eyes, urging me to write in the diary, to see something happen.

More options would be open to me once I reached Hogwarts where there was Dumbledore to consult. If I wanted to. This was supposed to be Harry's first year, where the Philosopher's Stone was about to be stolen by Lord Voldemort and Quirrell working together.

If Voldemort got his hands on this diary, what would happen? Would they merge and become something more terrible?

My fingers itched to write something. Even something like, "Hi, I hate you, asshole," would've brought me immense satisfaction. But if I did write, the diary would surely respond and my curiosity would eat me up alive if I didn't respond. Sheesh.

I turned my mind to other stuff: how had I gotten the diary?

Dobby knew; that was the crucial hint. I hadn't gotten close to Lucius since—just hours ago, when I got back. Hadn't he asked me to take my letter? I'd went to get it myself but he asked Dobby to take it for me—surely, that must be when the diary was slipped into my trunk: Dobby had been ordered to do it, my death sentence.

Lucius wanted me out of his way for the Black inheritance. Oh how wealth and prestige blinds you. And he likely wanted me to kill the Mudbloods before they could taint Draco. Or something. I've got to destroy it.

The first weapon that came to mind was the Sword of Gryffindor, as I could hardly waltz into the Chamber of Secrets and ask the Basilisk for a fang nicely. Now the question was … how do I get the sword? Especially when the sword hadn't even absorbed the quality of a Basilisk's venom?

A mangled, hysterical shriek of frustration tore from my throat: my fingernails dug so deeply into my palms, I bled. I didn't realize until blood dripped onto the right page of the diary. Pain stung at me, but not as badly as the realization of what I'd done did.

Another scream was ripped from my mouth as my blood disappeared, absorbed completely by the diary, and then: _Are you hurt? Do you need help?_ was written in my own blood. My blood! I had paid enough attention to Professor Snape in class to know that blood was a powerful, binding magical property in potions – or any magical substance you were making. I hoped this did not apply as making something.

I looked reluctantly down at the diary: the words hadn't disappeared. As if the red letters were orders, however, my fingers were moving. I swiped the quill off my desk and, after dipping it in a pot of ink, shakily wrote: **_I'm fine for now. Unless you know how to ward off an uncle out for your blood._**

The ink sank into the paper. I waited. Then: _Why don't you tell me the whole story?_

**_So you can absorb my life force for your own physical form, Mr. Horcrux? No thank you._**

I slammed the diary shut with finality, tossing it carelessly across the room and flopping down onto my bed, exhausted. I was asleep before I'd even blinked twice.

…

I woke to someone poking me in the back. "Draco," I groaned miserably, batting the hand away. "Go'way. 'm tired."

"It's dinner time," the boy piped up. Though he was already eleven, I couldn't erase the image of a five-year-old Draco. He was still the little brat I'd put up with for years and might've even grown fond of, to some limited degree. "And we have a lot to talk about!"

"No, there's nothing I want to share."

I expected some whining but none came – had he matured in the time I was gone? What sort of miracle was _that_? "That's fine," said Draco and his voice was sly. I stiffened, tempted to turn, but Draco walked away: his polished shoes clicking as he walked away. "You can ask that horrid elf to bring your dinner up later if you want."

"…Yeah, I'll do just that. I wouldn't want to ruin your father's appetite." Draco closed the door once I was done talking. I wondered if I'd been too harsh. Sighing my guilt, I rolled over, squinting in the dark. My room was the same from all those years ago when I'd stepped foot in this mansion: creamy white walls, powder blue covers.

And ghosts. Terrors of my imagination.

Shuddering, I pulled my covers up and over my head, determined to sleep until tomorrow.

**~{VI}~**

Unhealthy as it was, I spent the remainder of summer vacation locked in my room. Sending Dobby out to get me books from Lucius' library and studying, self-teaching some of the subjects to myself. It was ironic how much I worried over the diary when I first got it and it took me at least three days to realize the diary was _gone_.

Maybe my belatedness in realizing it was missing was played on by my desperate wish that it had never happened. When I found it missing, it only became that much more horrifying to relish. I had no control over the events now; I couldn't control what the diary could do.

But who would take it? Dobby?

_"It's dinner time!"_ rang out in my head. Draco had been the only one to come into my room after I'd tossed the diary away: Draco had taken it? Cold panic washed over me. Annoying as he could be, I never wanted real harm to happen upon him.

After ransacking my room for the fourth time and found no diary, I finally did something I'd never done of my own accord before: I went to Draco's room. I knocked harshly and quickly. Draco responded pretty quickly, eyes widening in surprise when he saw me.

"Sal?" he whispered in disbelief. "What're you doing here?"

I was agitated as I replied, "Have you seen a diary in my room? My diary?"

Draco stiffened slightly. Only slightly. Had I not been watching him for signs of guilt, I wouldn't have noticed. But I did notice and I narrowed my eyes at him. "No," he replied, managing to pull off casual.

My jaw clenched as I was reminded of his stubbornness. "Give it back," I ordered, holding a hand out for it.

Draco pursed his lips, chin jutted out. "No! As it's not even yours in the first place!" Then he slammed the door shut in my face.

My mouth fell open in shock: Draco never pushed me away. Never. Sure I had done it to him plenty of times but never … _never_ in my entire life … had he ever given me such a cold reception. Still stunned, I made my way back to my room, sat by my desk and stared at the book depicting a gruesome death by a Lacerating Curse.

There's no other way around it: I've got to steal it back.

…

..

.

**_I hate it! He's hanging out with house-elves, blood-traitors and Muggles! Scum and by-product of filth! Why doesn't he ever pay attention to _****me_?_**

_Now, now, Draco, patience. All you need is something impressive._

**_What do you know about impressive? You're just a diary._**

_A diary that happens to know the very thing that will draw Sal's attention: something of such magnitude he won't be able to look away._

**_What's it? Tell me, Tom!_**

_You might be frightened, I cannot, in good conscience, let a young boy …_

**_I won't! Just tell me!_**

_Have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?_

.

..

…

"Sal!" Cedric slung an arm around my shoulder, smiling, the moment he saw me at the station. Draco, decked out in his school robes and being fussed over by his parents for the last time in a long while, stood slightly apart from me. I had gone the longest time without being bugged by him and while this was a reprieve in many ways, it hardly put my mind at ease.

My eyes ached with weariness: I had insomnia – a problem I had been struggling against ever since my parents were incarcerated in Azkaban.

Cedric's smile wavered in concern as he took in my state; his gray eyes slid over to the Malfoy family, who stood at a good five feet away from me. "They didn't…?"

"I had nightmares, nothing to worry about," I brushed him off, smiling mildly. "We should find a compartment. One without Harry Potter in it." Or Draco Malfoy, I thought silently, taking Cedric's hand and pulling him along.

Draco did not call out after me.

Cedric helped me get my trunk onboard, then we worked on his trunk. "Your trunk is heavier than mine," he noticed. "What did you bring with you?"

"Books I smuggled from my uncle's library." I smirked, shrugging innocently as I plopped down by the window, looking out. Aunt Cissa unexpectedly caught my eyes – we had seen little of one another in my last week at the Manor – then, awkwardly, she lifted a hand in a wave.

I blinked in surprise before I returned the gesture – I dropped my arm when I caught Lucius' eye and his calculating smile, counting my worth with every gauge. She smiled warmly before she linked her arm with her husband's and Disapparated.

I cast the station one last cursory glance and promptly froze at a sight. I practically lurched out of the window to see it.

"Sal?" Cedric sounded baffled. I was, too, though for a different reason.

There, standing beside a vulture-hat-wearing old lady and a stuttering boy with pink cheeks and blonde hair, was a woman: she bore remarkable resemblance to her son, the Auror Alice Longbottom. She was sane, out of St. Mungo's, and she swooped down to give Neville Longbottom one last peck on his forehead before ushering him onto the train, smiling as she did so.

Cedric pulled me away from the window, staring at my bewildered expression. "What's wrong?" he asked in a dramatized whisper.

"I … nothing," I managed to get through.

Oh Merlin – so many things changing, so much out of my control. I worried my lip and my expression must've been strained enough for Cedric to keep quiet and refrain from pestering me.

The train was whistling when Cedric nudged me. "Hey, your cousin," he muttered, jerking his head at Draco who dawdled in the hallway. I saw Greg and Vince. He was talking purposefully to them but his eyes were on me, daring me.

I opened the compartment door just to hear, "—arry Potter down there."

I changed what I wanted to say: "Trust me, you wouldn't be making friends with Harry Potter," I snorted at the thought.

Draco scowled heavily at me. "Why _not_?" the Malfoy heir bristled.

"Your attitude," I replied curtly, "Potter was raised by Muggles, he must love them." Hah! I knew he didn't. "You and your prejudiced ways won't earn favors from him. Just stay away and save yourself from embarrassment, Draco. Come sit with me." _And give me back the diary._

Draco made a move as if to accept my offer – obviously, he was surprised and tempted because I'd never offered my time to him before – but then he paused. His arm tensed; my eyes traced his right arm to the tight grip he had on Riddle's diary. Shit. "No," he said quietly. "I've got other stuff to do."

Then he swept away before I could stop him, his bodyguards trailing after him like obedient puppies. "Draco!"

"Excuse me," a bossy sort of voice interrupted me, "Can you please not block the aisle?"

I swiveled my head to stare at the first-year: her bushy brown hair made her pretty face looked small, her brown eyes were like chocolate. I stepped away. "Thank you," she said huffily but she did not immediately go down the hallway. Instead, she peered none-too-subtly over my shoulder to look into my compartment.

"First year?" _She_ – Salazar, _why_? – jumped at Cedric's abrupt addressing. "Come on in!" He invited generously, like the Hufflepuff he was. "If you have nowhere else to seat."

Embarrassment made itself clear on her face. "Thank you …" Her tone was less pompous as I stepped away for her to enter, dragging her trunk behind her. I suddenly felt claustrophobic; I retreated to seat next to Cedric, making it clear I did not want to sit next to her: she did not seem to notice, busy as she was with Cedric who helped her heave her trunk ahead.

"I'm Hermione Granger. What's your name? You're my seniors, aren't you? Tell me, are the lessons really tough? Will I, a Muggle-born, have a tough time catching up? What are classes like, mind?"

"Rasalas Lestrange, pure-blood."

"Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff." My friend – galling as it was to admit sometimes – nudged me playfully. "This misogynist is a Slytherin. Those are the two Houses of Hogwarts, the others being Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Muggle-born, yeah? You don't have to worry at all; the classes are straightforward and fun, the professors are helpful and the seniors are quite kind – granted if you ask nicely – you won't fall behind at all!"

She shot off a paragraph of questions and he answered splendidly without missing a beat. I could see how Cedric would sweep girls off their feet.

Already, Hermione was turned to him, chattering away. I relaxed in my seat, heaving a sigh of relief.

Cedric and Hermione managed to keep one another company – with several intervals of interruption where the trolley lady came by and she politely requested we leave while she changed – until the journey to Hogwarts ended. Hermione practically vibrated on the spot. Though she wrung her fingers nervously.

"You'll do fine!" assured Cedric for the umpteenth time. Did he not get bored with assurances?

I sneered. "Spoiler alert: you just have to put on a hat to be Sorted."

"Sal!" cried Cedric, scandalized. Every upperclassman participated in the hazing: scare the first years with made-up stories about tests during the Sorting.

I smirked. "You'll do well in Ravenclaw, Granger. See you not, kiddo." Then I sauntered off to join the rest of the herd leaving the train in droves.

I thought I glimpsed Draco among the first years but Hagrid led them away quickly. And something else stole my attention: Thestrals pulling the carriage up for us to board. There were no roofs since it wasn't raining. But I still stared, transfixed as I reached out to pat one.

"Sal, what's the holdup for?" It was Adrian: he nudged my arm, a quizzical look thrown in my direction, as he climbed onboard.

The Thestral neighed – a screechy, high sound not common among ordinary horses – and leaned into my touch, cantering. I gave it one last pat before joining Adrian, Rosier and Montague on the carriage. I looked and saw Cedric greeting the rest of his friends from Hufflepuff.

"You can't see it, can you?"

"See what?" asked Rosier, bemused.

I pointed at the Thestral pulling us to Hogwarts that was visible even in the distance. "Only people who's seen death and accepted its reality can see the horses."

"We're not pulled by magic?" Montague blinked hard in disbelief.

"Thestrals, look it up if you want," I said offhandedly.

"Who did you see die?" Adrian inquired shrewdly.

"Me," I grinned at the irony of it all. Adrian knew better than to question me. He rolled his eyes, chalked it up as Lestrange's strangeness, and turned to the other boys to ask about their summer; he definitely did not want to know about my Muggle holiday.

Eventually, as with all boys' conversations in Hogwarts, the talk turned to Quidditch.

"—trying out for Seeker," said Adrian.

Too bad Harry was going to make him eat dirt in Seeking, I thought privately.

"Any interest, Lestrange?"

"Quidditch is not my forte," I said simply, "I'm more interested in furthering my studies in the Dark Arts – and the Defense against it. If you want a duel, I welcome your invitations, just not Quidditch." Gotta throw out Dark hints to keep up the image, sometimes. Besides, I wasn't lying.

"You planning on becoming an Auror?" Rosier sneered, condescendingly so. Rosier was fair-haired, his eyes a rosy pink, and quite girlish looking. I'd never taken note of it before. Rosier hated Aurors because his father Rosier Sr. had been killed by Aurors.

"I don't think so," I demurred lightly. I doubted I had a choice in my career; not when my job had been picked out for me ever since I was born to Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange. "You?" I asked, just to deflect the attention on me.

"A wizard barrister maybe," Rosier murmured just as vaguely. A wizard barrister was, as it sounded, someone who defended Dark wizards and witches in court if they were ever caught: it wasn't a popular job. I figured Rosier's motivation was, once again, due to his family's allegiance with the Dark Arts and how his family members were used to being arrested by the Ministry for misconduct and dabbling with Dark Magic.

"Good luck with that," snorted Montague who did not have a high opinion of Rosier's intelligence.

"What about you?"

I tuned them out once it was clear I'd lost their interest. My thoughts were with Draco and Riddle's diary. Worry gnawed at me, causing me to roll my lower lip in between my teeth, right up until I was seated at the Slytherin table.

The Sorting commenced the moment McGonagall set out the stool and placed the Sorting Hat on it.

As everyone craned their necks to see Harry Potter, I was no exception. I cursed the fact that the procession of first years were between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff so my view was limited in the surge of Ravenclaws blocking my sight.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

When the Hat roared Hufflepuff as the girl's new House, I saw Cedric roaring his approval too. I dimly noted, not for the first time, that Dora wouldn't be here anymore. Sadly, the impact she'd left upon my reputation would not fade as swiftly as she'd graduated.

Inevitably, "Granger, Hermione!"

"I'm hungry," groaned Marcus Flint, a senior of mine.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"… Huh?" I whirled around to see Hermione walking away – it _was_ her Sorting, wasn't it?

I tugged urgently on Adrian's arm; he turned to look at me, mildly bemused. "That girl – she was Sorted into Raven—?" Hermione Granger had resumed a seat reserved for first years at the table next to ours: her reserved Housemates welcomed her most warmly. "Never mind," I muttered, releasing Adrian who immediately turned back to the Sorting.

Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe became Slytherins, making me cringe: they were anything but Slytherin-worthy and it shamed me to the core to be lumped with them in such a category but the Hat also took in the wants of the students.

I was relieved there was Adrian and Rosier between me and the first years.

Draco, still gripping the diary under his robes like it might disappear if he didn't hold onto it, sauntered over to the Slytherin table not long after.

The rest of the Sorting proceeded smoothly – everyone but Hermione and Padma Patil had exchanged Houses – and though I snuck several glances at Hermione Granger, I still enjoyed the feast immensely, and after, only dully taking note of Dumbledore's speech.

I kept one eye on Draco, as Aunt Cissa would've wanted me to, but he looked and acted like a normal boy instead of a Riddle-possessed murderer. But the difference in his conduct ever since he had acquired the diary was immense: I bade him goodnight and he ignored me, turning his nose up.

Adrian had to drag me down the hallway and back to our dormitory.

"That's the cousin you complain about?" asked Rosier, joining us in our room, and placing his trunk down. He arched a doubtful brow. "He doesn't seem as clingy as you make him out to be."

"You make that Malfoy heir sound like he's about three or something," added Montague dubiously.

"Time changes people," I demurred.

"In one summer," Rosier snorted.

I decided not to mention how I'd gone off to Tonks' Muggle suburban for summer vacation; they'd treat me like I'd have the plague if I did. And I wasn't in the mood to look for enemies.

As I crawled under my sheets, feeling at home and warmth washing over me, I had one resolution: get that damned diary back and keep Quirrell away.

**~{VI}~**

Convincing Draco to give it away was clearly not going to work. He positively ran away from me when I tried to approach him after breakfast.

How much influence did the diary have over him?

I was in shock as I pondered this; my morning classes passed in a blur and I was still nowhere close to forming a plan to procure the diary again. I got so distracted that Fawley managed to grope me. After realizing it was a girl who was stuck to my side, I shrieked, shoved her and tumbled down the stairs as a result.

In front of Draco. Right, there goes any chance of intimidating him. There was nothing remotely scary about a boy who was scared of girls and had cracked his skull going down the stairs.

"What's wrong with you today?" demanded Adrian, bewildered as he handed me notes from History of Magic's class that I had missed – a fact that I was not sorry about. "You're disoriented and out-of-it. Did… something happened?" I wondered if I'd imagined the tone of concern in his voice.

"My insufferable cousin took my diary," I informed him as honestly as possible.

Amusement became clear on Adrian's face; his mouth twitched into a smirk. "I never took you to be the diary type."

I held up a hand to indicate silence, straining my ears to listen hard. I fished for my wand either way, and murmured, "Muffliato." Then I turned to Adrian, expression serious. "That diary was something my uncle got me. Now you know that I'm the one who's going to be benefitting form the Black family's fortune—?"

"Lucius Malfoy wants to kill you." A pause. Adrian's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "The diary is cursed?"

"Yes, I'm glad you cotton on so quick—"

Adrian couldn't help the snort from escaping his mouth. "It's going to be bloody ironic. He gave the diary to you with the intention to kill you, but it ends up in his son's hands! Can you imagine the look on his face if his son's the one who died?" He laughed nastily.

I smacked him to silence him. "I've got to get that diary back," I hissed at him, eyes flashing. "Draco's annoying but he's still a kid, my cousin – I can't let it harm him."

Adrian sobered instantly. "'Course I'll help." I blinked, eyes softening. "Dragging an innocent bystander is not my style. What do you need? Say the word."

"You're … willing to take _my_ lead?" I asked for confirmation.

Adrian smirked. "I think you're – _attractive_ – when you glare and go all Dark Lord on us."

"A-A-_Attractive_? Dark Lord? Me!?"

"Not now though," laughed Adrian, a trace of apologetic embarrassment in his voice. "Catch you later." Then he loped off before I could snag his sleeve and outright demand he explain himself.

"It was just a couple of hexes!" I hollered at his back. "How is that Dark Lord-worthy?"

No one answered.

(Though I suspect a diary can give me the answers I need)

**~{VI}~**

My meeting with Harry Potter was a complete shock.

"Hey, that – that's your Housemate right, Draco? Excuse me!"

I had already turned at the familiar name. Without a doubt, it was my cousin striding after a boy his age – his classmate Harry Potter. There was no mistaking the disheveled hair and bright green eyes behind full-moon glasses. I nearly had a heart-attack.

Since when did Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy walk to classes together?

"Y-Yeah?" I spluttered, nearly losing my grip on my binder.

"Can you please direct us to the Charms classroom?"

"Us? You two are – friends?" I just had to ask. Had this world tilted sideways? I was confounded.

"Of course we are," inserted Draco haughtily, jaw jutted out. "You thought I'm not worthy to befriend Potter?"

"Oh, no – I thought the other way around," I quickly regained my bearings. Apparently, Draco would want to talk when it was to rub something in my face – I made sure to not show how rattled I was by this. I turned to Harry. "You'll find that Draco is an insufferable bigot who thinks Muggles and Muggle-borns are scum. If you don't want your reputation to suffer, I strongly advise you stop associating with the likes of us."

Draco's mouth fell open in outrage, his visage pasty white. "You—"

"The Charms corridor is down that hallway. Then remember to turn right, walk ahead and make another right turn. First class on the left."

"…Thank you…?"

I hurried away to my first class of Tuesday – DADA. Lord Voldemort, behind Quirrell's head. Perfect. I resumed my usual seat beside Adrian and aside from a polite nod, his face impassive, he showed no outward reaction to the conversation yesterday in the Infirmary.

Attractive? _Me_?

(I was flattered though I'll be damned before I admit it)

"Quirrell's a mess," muttered Adrian abruptly, startling me enough to make me twitch sideways. "Heard he tangled with vampires and banshees in the Dark Forest." Clearly, he wanted my opinion on the matter.

"Vampires, definitely vampires that traumatized him," I murmured in turn, deciding to play ignorant like he was about what transpired yesterday. My nose twitched at the repugnant smell of garlic even though Quirrell hadn't moved from his spot behind the desk; apparently, he was afraid of us. A Ravenclaw girl raised her hand to request permission to use the ladies and he positively cowered away from her when she walked past his desk.

In a few months' time, he was going to die.

Knowing he was going to croak and not doing anything about it … morbid. Absolutely morbid.

"… t-terrifying, honestly!" Quirrell squeaked away. "W-When f-faced with such an a-adversary," his lower lip quivered, "y-you s-should—"

"Can you hear what's he saying?" Adrian groaned, not bothering to keep his voice down.

I kicked him but Quirrell wouldn't have reprimanded him anyway. Not when a hair-raising, toe-curling shriek rent the air: every student in class started. Quirrell flinched into his desk.

Adrian's eyes were wide, he was breathless with excitement: our eyes met and in silent agreement, we bolted out of our seats and out of the classroom, heading the rest of the class. Quirrell did not stop us; if he had tried, then his attempts had been too quiet to be heard.

"What – do you – think happened?" gasped Adrian, clutching a stitch in his chest – I had a whole lot more stamina than any of my classmates did – as we hurtled towards the source of the voice. Classes we passed by joined the stream of curious students.

"Dunno – came from the Transfiguration –!"

Shouts took up among the crowd; a solid wall of sixth-years had converged before the scene. I elbowed my way through, stumbling forward.

"Blimey! No!"

A boy – red-haired and freckle-faced – was crouching beside another redheaded boy. I'd only seen him in passing but I knew who he was: Percy Weasley. And the first-year must be Ron Weasley, I realized.

Horror knotted my intestines in my gut as I approached them. Percy Weasley was ashen-faced, eyes widened in horror, and – I touched his arm – he was stiff as marble. He had been Petrified – by a Basilisk's glare. No doubt about it.

Who had a grudge against the Weasleys? The Malfoys! This was Draco's ploy to get revenge. And to impress his father, no doubt, to be able to parade around the fact that he was the Heir of Slytherin in the Common Room and to pure-blood social gatherings.

I gritted my teeth as I pushed Ron away from smothering his unconscious, unaware elder brother. "Stand back, we've got to move him." I flicked my wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The prone form rose off the polished, reflective surface with ease: hovering a few feet off the air, Percy parted the crowd easily as I maneuvered him in the direction of the Infirmary.

"What's going on here?" shouted a familiar voice. I nearly dropped Weasley. The younger brother – Ron – was following me rather fearfully, face blanched white. "Lestrange!" barked McGonagall, livid with anger and concern. "What have you—?"

"I was about to move Weasley to the Infirmary!" I protested. "The whole crowd can tell you I did nothing to him!"

"It's true, Professor," Montague stepped to my defense. I exhaled slightly in relief. "The crowd was gaping before we came."

McGonagall nodded absentmindedly, dismissing suspicions in favor of checking on her student. She was stunned to discover his condition. "His eyes are open but … Rennervate!" Percy remained unmoved. She pointed her wand at his body. "Carry on, Lestrange." She rounded to the ogling crowd. "Back to classes, all of you – inform the professors in class about what has happened and act accordingly! Go! Fawcett, inform my class that Transfiguration class today is self-study time."

Murmurs and fierce theories were rippling even as the crowd dispersed in groups of twos and threes. Adrian caught my eye, nodding slightly, before walking off with Montague and Rosier – my usual crowd.

"Lestrange, Weasley – explanation please?"

"I – when I came to see the commotion," spluttered Ron Weasley, speaking at last, "He was already like that!"

McGonagall exhaled through her nostrils. "Weasley, I implore you to find the Headmaster."

"But I don't know wh—"

"Contact your twin brothers," ordered McGonagall calmly, "They have seen the Headmaster enough times to know where his office is. They might also want to know that their elder brother has been attacked." Ron nodded vigorously before speeding off.

McGonagall turned to me. "Lestrange …"

"It wasn't me," I insisted, lower lip finding its way out into a pout. I wanted to hex my mouth off for the instinctive reaction. I mean, McGonagall seriously reminded me of my grandmother from my previous life – and the fact that I'd always been the apple in her eye meant a pout could've gotten me out of any and every trouble.

"What matters now is to get Mr. Weasley to a medical expert," said McGonagall. "We will discuss this later."

_Even though I did nothing but help?_

Pushing away the resentful thought, I followed McGonagall at a brisk pace to the Infirmary. Luckily, the spell held even though I was preoccupied.

"Ten points for helpfulness – and that Charmwork was well done, Filius would've been proud." McGonagall's sudden praise and awarding of points surprised me enough to draw me back to reality. Her mouth twitched into what might've been a smile. "Off to your Common Room. Listen to your Head of House for further instruction."

"Yes, ma'am."

I couldn't have returned to the Common Room quickly enough. Before I could jump Draco – who was amidst a throng of Slytherins – Adrian popped up at my side, grim-faced. "You won't believe—"

"Save it." I shushed him. He backed off surprisingly quickly, trailing a few feet behind. I stopped before Draco, eyes falling to the diary in his lap. "Give it to me. I'm not into using the hard way but I swear, Draco—"

"You can't push me around anymore!" cried Draco in a shrill, high voice that was uncharacteristic of him. His cheeks that would've been flushed with emotion were pale, drained of blood. His platinum blonde hair was not as slickly combed as usual. He looked like he'd been the victim of a vampire instead of Professor Quirrell. "You're not as better than me as you think you are, Lestrange!"

Wow, I've been debunked to a last-name basis. This was a first time for me. And it was much more insulting than I'd originally thought – to be shouted down by a first-year in front of everyone?

(no, such weakness was to not be tolerated in the House of Serpents)

"Step up your game," hissed Adrian behind me.

My wand hit my palm before Draco could even twitch towards his. I ignored the scene I was making

(and did I mention I have a knack for drawing unwanted attention?)

and channeled my hot anger – magic – into the tip of my wand. Even though the wand movement that accompanied this spell was just a jab at my target, I was not looking to only cursing one of them. I knew how to work my magic, I knew how dangerous this curse was.

A wide area of affect generally meant a lesser extent of the effect. That was the first rule of Charmwork we learned in class as first-years though Flitwick had doubted we could significantly alter spells at our current level.

Take, for example, the Killing Curse: you could spread it but it would not kill anyone, it would knock someone out perhaps, but not kill.

And now: "_Expulso_!" Blue blasted the throng of Slytherins apart, lighting the Common Room an unnatural bright laser-blue hue and hurling furniture around.

Screams, shouts and thuds of heavy things hitting solid surfaces mixed into the din. I sent a silent apology to the innocent bystanders as the light died, still leaving black spots in my eyes. Draco was scrambling on the stone floor for the diary that had fell from his lap.

_Levicorpus!_

Draco yelped; regret stung me as he was hoisted into the air but it was for his own good – prolonged contact with the diary was begging for death. His current state already worried me.

I reached the diary first and I snatched it, jabbing my wand at Draco a third time: _Liberacorpus!_

I darted to my dormitory, locking it behind me, heart thudding harshly against its confines as I fumbled with the diary. "Merlin damn you," I breathed to the inanimate object, sliding to the ground. "You hurt one hair on Draco's head and I'll … I'll…"

("Sal!" A cheerful, adoring pointed pale face of a three-year-old grinned down at me, as I was splayed listlessly on the grassy lawn behind the Malfoy Manor. "Play wit' me!")

The emotion that had clenched my heart in its unrelenting grip ever since I found out that Draco had this diary: worry, frustration, and fear for my little cousin, loosened. Finally. The diary was here, unable to harm Draco.

I held it to my chest.

_Not Draco, not him. He's the most annoying little shit ever but if he's gone—_ I couldn't finish the train of thought.

…

..

.

"That was awesome man!" cheered Montague later at dinner in the Great Hall, clapping my shoulder before removing contact hastily: he seemed mildly nervous, as if I'd turn a curse his way if he accidentally crossed a line he was unaware of. "I've never seen a curse so powerful."

"It wasn't," I sighed. "The real effect is blasting something into pieces. Is everyone mad at me?"

"Intimidated is more like it," said Rosier, plopping down beside me. Montague claimed the seat next to Adrian. I noticed that the Slytherins were rather subdued, likewise with the professors' table; whispers on the furthest end of the table, far away from me, but I couldn't eavesdrop a single thing. "What made you lose your temper?"

"I needed the diary," I said shortly, pointedly not looking at where Draco and his fellows were sitting together, huddled together furthest away from me.

"Dirty secrets in there?" jeered Rosier.

"Maybe," I sniffed, exchanging significant looks with Adrian who inclined his head in acknowledgement. "What did Professor Snape say? He came in later on, didn't he?"

"No one ratted you out, they didn't dare in case you cursed them again." Rosier assured me. Lowering his voice, he said, "But Snape gave us some interesting bit of information." His mouth was curved into a cruelly amused smirk. "Apparently, the Chamber of Secrets has been opened – the writing on the wall down the Gryffindor Tower says so."

"Chamber of—?"

"Yeah," Rosier nodded, misinterpreting my expression, "I always thought it was a legend. A bedtime story perhaps. That's what my mother told me anyway." He hesitated, a flicker of uneasiness danced across his face. "Percy Weasley was pure-blood, you don't think—?"

"I bet the Heir of Slytherin knew he was a blood-traitor," interrupted Montague. "So he was attacked. The next will be Muggle-borns, or more blood-traitors." He smiled a satisfied smile. "That's good for us. Let's just keep our heads low and keep a look out for the Heir."

They were eyeing me extremely pointedly when they spoke.

"…What?"

Adrian, Montague and Rosier looked at one another, engaged in a deep glaring contest that Adrian apparently lost. So he was the one to answer me after a long moment's pause.

"Well," began Adrian with an air of forced nonchalance, waving his fork idly, "Before you entered the Common Room, Malfoy was boasting about being … y'know. That's why there's such a crowd gathered around him; people were wheedling him for the truth, wondering if he's lying." Here, he dared not continue further.

So Rosier, the boldest and nosiest among us four, spoke, "I thought that's why you're so angry – and everyone thinks the same."

_Oh no, don't tell me—_

"Malfoy took credit for what you did," whispered Montague, leaning closer towards me to lessen the chance of being overheard, dark eyes searching my expression for a hint of complacency – anything to convict me as the Heir of Slytherin. "That's why you're so miffed that you tried to blast us into pieces. Blimey, Sal! We would've believed you – I mean, how can that snot-nosed brat be Slytherin's heir? You look more like the part – Adrian agrees with me, don't you, Ad?"

Adrian's eyes bore into mine, unreadable. "Yes, of course."

I scowled until he turned his cheek the other way.

**~{VI}~**

Clearly, thinking things would go smoothly was too optimistic and foolish.

I didn't have a good grasp on time but judging from the snores and even breathing from the other beds, it was well past midnight.

So who in Salazar's name was sitting on my bed, _straddling_ me?

Smoldering black eyes, black hair, pale complexion that was stark in contrast with my adjusting vision. I blinked and recoiled: my wand was at my throat, a steel-grip at the back of my neck prevented me from jerking away any more than I had.

"Don't scream," he hissed, eyes flashing darkly in warning.

I stared for he was none other than – "Riddle," I choked out.

**~{VI}~**

* * *

A considerably speedy update, in comparison to my past record. And this is longer than the previous chapter! XD Treat it as a reward for the review count last chapter- the most since this story's inception.

So they meet, how do you think the encounter will go?

**AN: **TMR/Rasalas takes the cake judging from the previous chapter's response. Now as we all know, TMR was born without an important component due to the circumstances of his birth so he can't exactly love as we normally can. This chapter, however, already presents a solution to that. Can anyone guess?

Whoever guesses right and request a drabble - TMR/Rasalas oriented drabble!

**R&amp;R**


	8. vii

Harry Potter series © J.K. Rowling

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

_**7**_

"You know me, good." Tom Riddle's handsome mouth twisted under a complacent smirk. "The other boy knew nothing of me. He even insulted me but never mind – he's served his purpose. Interesting bit of information he has, about a certain Boy-Who-Lived … but that is secondary priority next to what you know." My wand dug deeper into my throat: he couldn't have gotten the message across clearer.

I was being threatened by a dead bastard with my own wand – my supple 13½", pine, phoenix feather wand. In my bed. Having been part of the wizarding society for twelve years, I can safely assure you there was _not a single section_ in our traditions that deemed threatening someone in their bed was perfectly normal and acceptable.

How does one react to that outrageous act?

I'm not sure about someone else but the inner-girl in me, the one who'd been buried for so long that she'd nearly faded, reacted instinctively in the way every girl in my lifetime knew how: aim for man's weakest spot; I kneed the older teen's groin. (To be fair, he should've restrained me better.)

He was corporeal to a certain extent, I realized quickly as Riddle hunched over, barely swallowing a shriek of pure fury and agony. Then again, he had held my wand. I reached for it but he snatched his arm away. Gritting my teeth and throwing caution to the wind – most people under attack did this – I kicked him off me and lunged.

Icy energy surged to my fingertips from my veins: the atmosphere was dunk in cold, my breaths created wisps of mist before me. But cold hardly affected Riddle who was but a mere memory; his breath did not create vapors, his chest heaved, but he wasn't breathing.

A worry seized me in panic: how did Riddle become corporeal? In canon, Riddle had only succeeded after nearly robbing Ginny of her life.

Did that mean he'd drained Draco…?

"What did you do to Draco?" I snarled, seizing his collar and shaking him.

"You know what a Horcrux is," hissed Riddle, "You know what I can do."

"Merlin damn it, you stole his life-force—" So quickly. Was it because Riddle and Draco had more similarities to bond over than Riddle and Ginny? Well, they _do_ hate Mudbloods and Muggles and blood-traitors; they must've spent long, heartfelt hours getting emotionally close by sharing their hatred and feeding one another in an unhealthy manner.

Before I could think of something useful to do, I saw my wand jerked in his right hand; he cast a spell and the sudden heat searing my palms from where I was touching him forced me to release him with a shrill cry I couldn't suppress. I had never done well with pain – and heat? Forget it.

"Sal?" yawned Montague's voice – he was the lightest sleeper among us, it was not surprising that he woke up first. "What's going on?"

"It's cold!" whined Rosier. He was loud as usual, no doubt waking Adrian by now. "Sal, stop your Ice Elemental thing! We live under the dungeon where it's already freezing!"

I froze. Riddle's eyes were barely discernible in the dark. We were at an impasse – what would happen if the others saw? The thought flashed through me as quickly as it did to Riddle. Could he risk being seen and potentially busted before he even began his plans?

Should I let him be seen?

"…Sal?" Adrian. Footsteps. _Shleck_: the sound of my hangings being pulled apart. Annoyance clear in my dormitory mate's voice, he said, "Sal, I know you have problem sleeping and Madam Pomfrey should be able to do—do—what are you DOING?!"

His abrupt shout brought Rosier and Montague running in no time at all. Even Rosier was speechless; this was saying something as he usually had a way with words.

"This is not what it looks like," I started to say, about to warn them of the danger beneath me when Riddle cut in smoothly.

"It's unfortunate we've been interrupted, _Sal_." The dungeons were not lit well, especially not at night where the green flames were extinguished automatically; I couldn't see what expression Riddle was wearing. I couldn't even see my wand anymore – the silhouettes of my friends were indistinct. "We'll continue next time."

_… Interrupted? Next time?_

"Hey, who's that?" barked Rosier. "Give me the wand – Lumos!"

Riddle shoved me off him – a blunt blow to my bicep that didn't hurt as much because he punched like a girl in comparison to me – just as Rosier's spell shone into my canopy bed, blinding me as I made the mistake of looking directly at it. "Cut it out!" I cried, gasping in alarm as someone snagged my collar, cutting off my supply of oxygen and burning my neck with the abrasion. "You're letting him get aw—mmph!"

"Morgana's tits!" yelped Montague.

_What? What?! I can't see!_ I wanted to complain as spots still dotted my vision like annoying dung. Except that something was covering my mouth. A hand? No – one hand was at my collar, the other tipped my chin back to … Morgana's tits were right – a mouth, Riddle's mouth. Over – my – own.

(My brain short-circuited)

Riddle pulled away, lightning quickly, and before I could regain my bearings, he'd darted out of my dorm and down the hallway that led to the dormitories.

"Lestrange, you animal!" Rosier tackled me playfully. Under the pretense of playfulness. Whatever he was up to, it snapped me out of my shocked, disgusted daze. "I never knew you were that type! Never mind the Black line, the Lestrange line's going to be extinct – unless, a consort?"

"What – are – you – talking – about?! Get off me!" I elbowed Rosier's ribs – or what I thought was Rosier's ribs. The light from his Lumos spell had died, I was dumped in darkness again; sparks still danced in my sight. "I've got to go after him." _Before he murders my cousin._

"Oh, come on. We didn't even see his face because you were snogging!" Fuck. That's it. That's why he initiated that contact; to hide his face from my dormitory mates. "What's there to be afraid of? We won't spill a word. What year is he in? What's his name? Is he a Slytherin or did you let him in with our password—?"

_How can someone be so damned smart? _

I tried – and failed – to curb my suspicion. "He came out of the fucking diary, a Tom Riddle from fifty years ago! Adrian, you know it's cursed – tell them!"

Adrian did not respond immediately. Then, "All I know is that you're not a very good liar."

"…What?" Disbelief stunned me still.

"From fifty years ago?" Montague repeated, sounding as amused as I was stunned. "How did you come up with that story?"

_They're not going to believe me_, I realized, heart sinking like stone to the bottom of my stomach.

"It's late," said Adrian loftily, "Let's go to bed and leave Lestrange up to his … nightly stuff."

Rosier snickered, whacking my shoulder. "We won't bug you next time," he laughed as he got off my bed.

I spared myself only three seconds to feel very mortified indeed before I scrambled off my bed and out after where Riddle had disappeared to – with my wand, he had _my wand_, shit. I was crossing the hallway at a sprint when I remembered something more crucial: _Draco. How was he?_

Riddle must've sucked him dry by now!

Sick to my stomach at the implication of such, I changed direction – Riddle could run amuck for now – and ran to Draco's dormitory. I nearly kicked it open as I barreled in. I didn't know which bed was which so I had to wrench the hangings open at random and peer in.

"Oof, who in Salazar's name—?"

"Zabini? Good, you're awake. Where's Draco?" I demanded hotly.

Blaise Zabini stared at me blankly, the seconds stretching as taut as my patience was. He finally responded, gesturing to the bed opposite of him. "There," he mumbled sleepily then he flopped back onto his bed without another word, apparently too tired to ask why I was intruding on his privacy.

I scrambled over to my cousin's sickbed. "Draco!" I whispered urgently, shaking his shoulder. I groped the dresser for his wand and my fingers curled around the thin strip of stick when I made contact with it. The core did not approve of me but I ignored it in favor of casting Lumos. The spell fizzled weakly in my hands, the wand uncooperative.

If he looked like the victim of a vampire earlier, he was a corpse now. I swallowed a scream. "Rennervate, Rennervate, _Rennervate_!" The spell was cast on Draco repeatedly to no effect. I pulled the sheets of him, dragging him out of bed. I tried to lift him with magic but my distress did not help the correspondence between me and Draco's stubborn wand. "Help," I croaked, stumbling back with Draco's weight, seizing the hangings of the bed next to Draco's and wrenching. "Help, Draco's dying!"

Zabini was the first to respond, lurching out of his bed, wild-eyed and startled. "What?" he asked loudly, incredulously. "Goyle, Crabbe, Nott!" he shouted. "Wake up – something's off!"

Nott and Crabbe responded swifter than the gormless Goyle did. Their voices clashed, panicky and high, in concern, repeatedly asking what was wrong.

"Up! We've got to get Draco to the Infirmary! Lift him with magic—or help me haul him there!" Goyle and Crabbe stepped in, the latter supporting his shoulders and the former gripping his ankles to move him; Draco's head lolled lifelessly.

"What happened?" gasped Nott for what seemed to be the tenth time.

Zabini was muttering the Levitation Charm to no avail. I hurried after them. "Left, you nimrod!" hissed Nott to Crabbe and Goyle. "The Infirmary is _that_ way!"

The path to the Infirmary had never seemed longer. But, finally, gasping for breath and cold with panic, we reached Madam Pomfrey: Draco did not stir once. His breath was fluttery and weak, indecisive, as if ready to leave his body at any moment.

Zabini pounded on the door. "Madam!" he cried.

"What's the fuss about?" I'd never once been so glad to hear Madam Pomfrey's brisk, prissy voice.

"Help," I said and I knew help would be granted at Hogwarts to those who need it.

Brusque, efficient: Madam Pomfrey took over and maneuvered Draco onto a bed. "Was he Petrified?" I opened my mouth to respond but she had already reached for his wrist, felt his pulse and the softness of his cold flesh. "No, he was not Petrified … where did you say you found him?" she directed the question at us sharply.

I could feel the drilling stares of Draco's dormitory mates. Perhaps the event earlier – my loss of temper – was still fresh in their minds; they did not speak, allowing me the chance to make something up, for which I was grateful for.

"In his bed. I was … heading to the Common Room to do some studying and I heard his moaning… calling for help."

"Sharp ears, Lestrange." Pomfrey's frown bled into her voice. Eyed me suspiciously, as if I was the one who inflicted this ailment on Draco.

I touched the pointed tips of my ears. Though I knew that was not what she meant. "Yes, I suppose so."

Pomfrey ushered us away, flicking on the lights in the mean time. Draco looked even worse beneath light; the flames in lamps held more life than his entire pinkie did. I froze, rooted on the spot. Asleep was the way I liked Draco best; without the sneers, the cheekiness, and his face was smoothed out into an innocent plain of sharp contours.

Breath caught in my throat, painful.

I'd never wished more than now – as Madam Pomfrey wrestled me out of the infirmary – that he was awake.

The walk back to the dungeons seemed longer than was possible: the first-years walked ahead of me. From the looks on Nott and Zabini's faces, they wanted desperately to talk and whisper and ask, but always, they would glance back – see me – and shy away from conversation. And Goyle and Crabbe didn't even sneeze without asking permission from Draco, nothing from them.

The silence made something – a sinister presence not belonging of this time and age – more profound. I picked up on it, past the seventh shadow down the corridor.

"Lestrange?"

"Go," I breathed, mounting fury icing the blood in my veins as I sensed the presence wrapped in the shifting the shadows, waiting for the right opportunity, yet knowing I'd be the one to seek it out. "Go back to the dorms without me," I clarified my instruction and the younger boys obeyed without fuss.

My hand instinctively twitched towards my pocket where my wand usually resided; the contact of unfamiliar wood—Draco's wand—made me painfully aware of how the Horcrux's manifestation still held my wand captive.

I pointed my wand at the darker, solider portion of the shadows lapping the walls, where moonlight did not touch. My jaw was locked tight. I could not speak—nothing came to mind immediately. Riddle had Draco's life in his hands; one offense on my part and he'd kill my cousin without another thought.

My balance on a precipice quivered. Struggling with breaths entering and exiting my lungs, I grounded out, "What do you _want_?"

"How pernicious," cooed the deceptively innocent voice from the shadows, "especially since it was you who so violently assaulted me." His tone hardened, letting me know he wouldn't be forgetting that incident so soon.

_Next time—if there's another next time—I'll be sure to freeze his balls off._

Figuring such threats would hardly make the Horcrux more cooperative, I desisted from spitting it in his face. "I don't care about that," I bit at him, antipathetic. Plunging onward recklessly, with no real plan, the words spilled from me: "I want to trade: my life for Draco's own."

"How noble, how benevolent!" mocked Riddle, still unseen. "Is this what they call love?" His sneer of disdain was clearly portrayed by the words. "To trade, to sacrifice—one for the other; the surviving one aggrieved by the death of the one who sacrificed; losses on both end, in the end."

"You wouldn't know," _Tempt him, Sal, he wants something I can offer—more substantial information Draco was not privy to_, "You're so vile even your Death Eaters dumped you once you fell from grace!"

"Oh, Death Eaters? My fall from grace? You seem to know a great deal about my original incarnate. It surprises me to hear those words come from your mouth; it almost sounds derogatory. As young Draco has so helpfully pieced together for me, your parents were Lord Voldemort's most devoted followers. They went to Azkaban for him, believing that he would return one day."

I blinked, put-out. "Surprised?" A chilly laugh ran goosebumps up my skin. "Draco was all too happy to be talking about you. I remember a phrase of his: '_When I talk about him, my heart quivers and I find myself starting to smile_'. I didn't know you but then I realized through Draco's incessant ramblings that you are the boy who first wrote in my book after so many years since its inception.

"I've had a generous amount of time to ponder my options. It's really boring being inside the pages of a book, do you know? No, I suppose not. But I do have ample amounts of time, time to choose, and ultimately, I've decided to let fate deal its card: and I have _you_ to confront, instead of the Boy-Who-Lived. You who know my most intimate secret…"

My throat bobbed as I swallowed thickly. I was suddenly glad the darkness had covered him; the situation would've been ten times more challenging had I been blasted fully with his glare or penetrating gaze. The memory's movements were soundless but I had the impression my wand was being aimed at my face, ready to fire should I give an unsatisfactory answer.

Time trickled by, moonlight waning some as clouds drifted ever slowly to caress the moon.

"Tell me, Rasalas Lestrange, how a baby with no special abilities to speak of defeated the greatest wizard of all time?" hissed Riddle, urgent and dark. "Speak and tell no lies or your cousin's life will be forfeit!"

I exhaled through my nose, my grip on Draco's wand almost painful. My hand lowered, descending slightly. Draco's life weighed heavily on the scales, information of the future was easy to trade. "The baby wasn't responsible for the Dark Lord's fall from grace," I murmured at last.

"Go on, hurry."

"It was his mother—his Muggle-born mother, a Mudblood as you deem to call them in spite of the filthy Muggle blood you have—who brought the Dark Lord down. She died in the process, no one can give a full account, so the credit was passed onto her son. Either way, you lost."

A violent shift in the shadows was the only warning I got before Riddle lunged. I sidestepped, quicker than he was. His eyes were positively crazed: disbelief, fury and shame coalescing into one boiling drive to rectify his mistake, to learn from it. He suddenly did not look as handsome.

"Do—not—stall," he spat, jabbing my wand at me, "Or little Draco is going to die. You know more, what happened? How did she do it then?"

Inspiration struck me like lightning; I knew what he despised the most, things he did not understand, could not comprehend. Scrapping for courage and eloquence, I managed to continue speaking, "_Love_." The word was tremulous, hanging in the air, not unlike after an Unforgivable had been uttered. Riddle stared at me in disbelief. I spoke fast: "She _died_ to save her son, she sacrificed herself out of love—that's magic at its most powerful, not even the Avada Kedavra could bring it down. The Killing Curse the Dark Lord cast rebounded and destroyed his physical body."

"But … he is not dead …" murmured the Horcrux, seeming to have skimmed past my explanation on how Harry Potter had survived that fateful night.

"No, his Horcrux is here—in front of me—there's no way he's dead. He's merely in hiding, in a crippled state of incapability, powers almost gone." My mouth was slightly dry from talking so much. No conversation I'd suffered through had been this tense.

"So," Riddle's nostrils flared indignantly as he drew himself up, previously rankled confidence steeling like armor once more, "This Boy-Who-Lived survived by a mere stroke of luck?"

"I _told_ you—"

"Potter was lucky his mother was willing to die for him," Riddle spat murderously, eyes flashing a warning to not push the topic. "A stroke of luck that Lord Voldemort did not see coming."

"Verbatim." I mustered as much disdain as I could and narrowed my eyes at him. "Though I'm sure had the Dark Lord's mother not died of disgust upon seeing his unlovable mug, he might've known mothers would be willing to die for their beloved child…"

"Avada Kedavra!" Green sparks sparkled feebly from the tip of my wand; even as I'd already vacated my previous spot, hissing like a wounded, offended cat. Highly offended cat that was immediately placated by the sight of a failed attempt on his life. My wand was unwilling to harm me—how sentient was it actually?

Seeing his failing would've been hilarious had Riddle's expression not contorted into something truly unlovable: pure unadulterated hatred. But he spoke quite calmly, "I do not need a mother's guiding hand," a deliberate sneer, "to know you are willing to die for your cousin. It emphasizes how much he means to you."

I faltered and Riddle shoved me off the precipice where I had the upper hand. His eyes glittered with malice. "See? Your bravado was cowed by love so rapidly—so much for the most powerful magic in the universe," he bit out contemptuously.

"As it kicked you off your high pedestal—!"

"Shut up or Draco suffers," snapped Riddle, a trace of impatience in his voice. He once more leveled my wand at me, ignoring the fact that it might not work for him. "Where is Lord Voldemort?"

"I don't know," was my automatic response.

"Do not lie!" he nearly screamed. "I know when you lie. I always know! Did your parents find a trace of me? Did they relay to you where I might've last headed off to?"

"I truly don't know!" I cried, mentally finishing, _which part of the castle he is in right now_. Technically, I was not lying. "If they'd found him, they would've pursued the clue instead of remaining in Britain where they were arrested!" My voice cracked. I never spoke about their arrest; it opened too many raw wounds. Awful loathing like no other stirred in me at the sight of Riddle, the one who led my parents to their downfall. "And I'll be damned before I let you take someone I care about for me!"

My increasing loathing of him was only mirrored by his face: acrid expression of how when everyone answered to him, it was with the thought of their loved ones in their mind. His acrimony that no one replied to him for his sake, that he had to wield threats and deaths to get satisfaction whereas everyone else—everyone he deemed to be beneath his station, not worthy or important as he was—had at least one person willing to procure satisfaction for them without their needing to lift a finger or resort to the extremes.

Then his hatred curbed, wiped off his face as if someone had cleaned it with a cloth: his handsome face was set into a derisive smirk now. "Bitter that the focus of your parents' affection had been for me instead of for you?"

"Affection?" I echoed disbelievingly. I couldn't put words into my parents' mouths and assumed it would be true, but I sure as heck knew that, "You were only a means to an end for them. I've got to admit that you've got guts when you came out of the closet and campaigned actively and most violently for the extermination of Muggles and the cleansing of our wizarding society. My parents flocked beneath your banner because they—and every one of your so-called followers—believed you could be what fulfill their dreams of a Muggle-free world.

"Once you were done for though, everyone dispersed and dumped you. My parents were caught because they were careless. The others disassociated themselves from you like you're mud."

A blast of blue light from the tip of my wand cut me off; I jerked aside and the spell cracked against the glass.

"You have tested my patience like no other," Riddle seethed. He looked like a half-being, half of him dappled in moonlight and the other half shadowed by the dark; the very embodiment of a cursed wizard living a halved life. "I see that your cousin's life matters very little to you if you can mouth off me like that when you know full-well I can kill him right now." He caught my gaze, a silent challenge.

"And what if I really _hadn't_ cared?" I challenged. Surprise flickered in his eyes, fingers on the wand loosening, but behind those brilliant eyes, he was already plotting to attack from another angle. I can't let him seize more of an upper hand: "You would've been left with no ground to exert control over me." Riddle opened his mouth, but I intercepted him. "And you don't," I added quietly, praying my courage and resourcefulness would not fail me now. "You never did."

"Such arrogance," he remarked coolly, unmoved.

"Perfectly justifiable when you're in my position," I retorted, giving myself a mental pat when my voice did not betray me by quivering. "Look here, _Tommy boy_," It was my first time mimicking my mother's tendency to baby-talk her enemies, to condescend them, and it tickled a dark trill in me when I managed to pull it off so perfectly—how natural it felt to be mocking someone, "Even if you were to kill Draco, my cousin's death will hardly limit my options. In fact, it would only give me more incentive to hurt you."

Riddle wouldn't be Riddle if he was so easily backed into a corner. He brandished the wand. "Assuming you can defeat me wandlessly in a duel."

My fingers twitched first: Riddle fired off a Stupefy a second later. I ducked, reflexes honed from nine months of running and exercising in the Room of Requirement, and I thrust my hand out to direct the icy energy. My wand froze completely in Riddle's hand but I wasn't worried, I know I'd be able to defrost it but now, it was useless.

"I know where your Horcruxes are, Riddle—yes, _Horcruxes_. A good six of them out there, with one embedded deep in you, the original incarnate. If Draco dies, you will go with him." A foreign smile of cruelty marked my lips. "Even if I can't breach the enchantments over them, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would be able to."

Riddle snorted, crossing his arms across his chest; my wand clattered soundlessly to the carpeted ground as he discarded it. "If you're on that old _cockroach's_ side, why bother waiting for so long? You could've gone blabbing to him a long time ago."

"I only choose my sides when I'm absolutely sure there's something in it for me," I told him, "It would seem that I have to bend my values slightly for this occasion."

_You're not winning this round._

"What makes you think I'll let you get away alive?" asked Riddle, quite calmly. I tried not to let his offhandedness imbalance me.

_Because I'm faster and stronger._ It was Muggle logic: the one with the upper hand in a brawl was clearly the one who is faster and stronger with his wits about him. I doubted Tom Riddle had spent his Hogwarts days running every morning, much less lift some weights for the fun of it in the ROR. Plus, he'd been in a diary, he was just a memory.

I had no reservations—even though in my past life as a delicately-built girl, I would've—about initiating a brawl: I leapt across the distance and tackled Riddle to the ground. We were both wandless and I suspected—I hoped—his current magical ability was only as much as he'd absorbed from Draco, so I was fairly confident that he wasn't that great in wandless magic, especially when he was being attacked like a Muggle.

I grappled with him: eyes wild and flashing, he bucked but I settled out of kneeing distance, and seized his forearms, muscles strained and taut. A grunt of exertion and a muffled cry of pain later, I had Riddle disarmed and pinned.

"If you'd have asked instead of resorting to threats," I panted, "I might've answered easier, readily."

Riddle looked very to spit at me; just as he opened his mouth, expression venomous and ghostly in the half of his face lit by the moon, harried footsteps approached us. He had run out of time. Brilliant inspiration stroked me: I jerked my head up, applying the proper amount of fear and shock to my voice, and said, "Professor Dumbledore? What—?"

Mouth tight, displeased, he hissed, "You've won this battle, Rasalas Lestrange, and I admit it: but the war has yet to end."

The form I was straddling dissolved into mist, leaving only the diary behind. I was alone for a full three seconds before Argus Filch, the caretaker, rounded the corner and shouted triumphantly.

"Student out of bed!" he roared, face lit by hideous malice. "C'mere, yeh brat! I'm going to have you scrubbing the Great Hall with a toothbrush!"

I sighed, picked the diary up and dusted it casually. Ignoring Filch and his cat, I went for my wand next; the ice melted the moment I touched it. I pointed my wand at Filch. "Obliviate." It was an immensely complex charm I had no experience with but frankly, I didn't care.

Filch was stunned enough for me to breeze past him.

Every step back to the dungeons made me wearier; it had been too stimulating a night. I didn't even have the energy to wake everyone up and clear up the misunderstanding immediately. I tumbled into my bed and fell dead asleep.

…

Next morning, I regretted not correcting their misconceptions immediately.

Adrian sat away from me, having been the first to arrive in the Great Hall without any of us—a break from the usual routine. The seats on either side of him had already been taken, so I sat where I usually sat. Rosier and Montague sat with me, flanking either side like bodyguards.

Joy. I see that Goyle and Crabbe were looking stupidly lost without Draco's guidance.

"Is it Diggory?" Rosier attacked me verbally just as I was about to take a bite out of my bacon.

"… Shall I hex your mouth off?" While terrorizing people was not my cup of tea, I had to admit that it was useful sometimes.

Rosier's nervousness made him raise his hands in surrender, a flicker of fear crossing his face. I hated that look, I didn't want anyone to look at me like that—ever. I sighed, setting my fork down. "Look, you've got it all wrong. I was … brawling …"

"In the middle of the night, _on a bed_," Montague deadpanned. I tried not to see how their version of their events was more plausible and believable than mine.

"Never mind what I did," I huffed, blushing slightly. "What's with Adrian?"

Montague ran a hand through his russet hair. "Um, you really don't know? Or did you just want to make me spell it out for you just so you can feel complacent?"

Do I really strike them as an egoistic prat who constantly feeds off praises? Insulted, I said, "I really—"

"Well, he—"

"Mr. Lestrange!" It was Snape: dark and menacing in spite of his thin frame, his greasy black hair hanging in his eyes did little to obscure the glower he often adorn for his beloved students. Instinctively, my hand clamped on my book bag sitting on my lap, where the diary was stored; I was not going to risk letting anyone whisk it away just because I misplaced it somewhere. "Come with me. It's about Draco."

I shot Rosier and Adrian decisive looks that meant, _we'll continue this later_.

Rosier nodded solemnly. Then he and Montague ducked their heads together and started whispering frantically. I had a feeling they were talking about me.

Forced to depart from the Great Hall with Snape however, I decided to let this slide for now. "Sir, how is Draco?" I questioned.

Snape's stride was brisk, his cloak flapping like large bat wings. "That," he said, "is what I wish to discuss. Mr. Zabini's account of the story implies that you already knew that Mr. Malfoy was to be attacked. How did you know you'll find him on the verge of death?"

"He's dying?!" I shrilled.

"My question has yet to be answered, Mr. Lestrange." Snape rounded abruptly to face me. I tensed. After facing down Riddle, Lord Voldemort himself—albeit in his teenage years—Snape should be a piece of cake. I tried not to meet his eyes, instead keeping my gaze on his big, hooked nose.

_I think I see boogies…_

"I heard his scream," I lied.

"His roommates heard nothing! Until you came in and shouted! Do not lie to me, Lestrange!"

"I wanted to do some revision as I couldn't sleep at that time, believing sufficient reading of history would do the trick," I amended coolly, suddenly reminded of my confrontation with the Horcrux yesterday. Courage flowed in my veins at the reminder; if I could face down a younger incarnation of the Dark Lord, why not a Potions Professor? "So I headed to the Common Room and as I passed his room, I heard his whimper."

Snape's eyes narrowed behind that curtain of hair. "Has his parents been contacted?" I asked in a would-be casual voice, changing the subject. Though Draco getting hurt wasn't part of the plan, seeing Lucius get a taste of his own medicine was worth it somehow.

I bit back a smirk as Snape spoke, "Yes, they are in the Infirmary. Which is where I'm taking you to; your guardians have requested your presence."

When I got to the infirmary, Draco was sitting up, cheeks flushed with health. I was stunned for a good minute before Snape shoved me in. "As you requested, Lucius," said Snape calmly. "I'll leave you to it."

I looked at my relatives. Seeing the expression on Lucius' face made me wish I was still fighting with Riddle last night.

Greaaat.

**~{VII}~**

* * *

**AN:  
**I'm sure the reason for Adrian's attitude is obvious. As for the 'discussion' between TMR and Sal, it won't be the last time they argue like that. I hope I've kept them IC though. If not, please suggest ways I can make him more realistic. Note, TMR backed off because he knows too little to have leverage over Sal, and since he _doesn't_ believe in love, he truly thinks there's a high chance Sal would just let Draco die (when, in truth, Sal was just all talk and no bite).

Fics about teenage Voldy portray him as very calculative and crafty, and I tried to replicate. Also, do note that this Horcrux hasn't talked to anyone in forty-nine years, and I think that long without anyone to talk to can drive even a Horcrux crazier- or desperate for company.

Btw, about the story's summary - I feel that it doesn't fit. And it's only a temporary solution. Can anyone make up a summary or suggest ideas for the summary? I swear, this is the only story whose summary I can't stick with. =.=

_**R&amp;R**_


	9. viii

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

CHAPTER VIII

* * *

_There are gaps in my son's memories. So I can never see the most complete of his life._

_I can't tell why but perhaps Sal just doesn't see the point in extracting certain memories or he's missed them in his great rush—we've not parted in calm, slow moments. Everything's been a rush of deadly green since and the panicked haze of those thwarted._

_However—seek and you will find._

_I ask around, as subtly as possible, even resorting to threats of life-stopping green._

_That nephew of mine is all the more willing. His memories swirl in the Pensieve, surfacing momentarily to obscure Sal's memories, telling the life of my son through another's eyes._

_._

_._

* * *

_._

_._

_1991, in Pensieve_

Draco Malfoy had never had such an enlightening day.

"Don't look so startled." Rasalas' soft – injured – voice sliced through his thoughts, grounding him to his current reality: where his cousin was finally paying him attention, finally looking him in the eye without quickly averting his gaze. "Have you never noticed the nature of my relationship with your father? Why I avoided you for as long as I could?"

Draco unstuck his throat to speak, voice indignant. "Of course I have! I just—" The young Malfoy had just never thought beyond the first reason he'd convinced himself was absolute: Sal was jealous of him because he had a perfect family while Sal's parents rotted in the wizard prison. Draco had worked hard to get Sal to notice – to see that he was family to Draco, that he always had a spot in their family, in his heart, with him.

He just failed to realize his father never wanted Sal to be a part of the Malfoys.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked instead.

"No need to now," said Sal in mock cheeriness, his right hand touching the faint imprint of a hand: Lucius had slapped him hard. "You know."

"I thought you were just … being rebellious. That you consider us unworthy." Draco wrinkled his nose slightly. "I resented that. I wanted you to see that we're equals."

Sal cocked a brow. The smudges around his eyes made it seem like he'd adorned mascara, emphasizing the brightness of his electric blue eyes. Somehow, it did not seem as frightening as before. Just – it made him look tired and sad. "I don't want trouble in that form," he said, "Your father hates me and I simply cannot find a way to reconcile with that fact; your mother treats me as exactly she would her nephew – secondary priority to her son – and I reacted accordingly: I left her to her devices and I don't show my face unless she wants to see me. Rather, I think your parents are the ones who consider me unworthy. A smudge in their family."

"That's not true," argued Draco, "Mother adores you."

"Perhaps," said Sal noncommittally, as if Narcissa Malfoy had not snarled at her husband right after he'd slapped Sal, hurling accusations that he'd been the one to land Draco in the infirmary. "At any rate, that's not what I wanted to discuss with you. It's about how you ended up here – you were on the verge of death hours ago."

A shudder ripped through his frame as he thought about it. "I dunno … I went to bed early because I feel terribly fatigued…" Draco searched his brain for more substantial information. As he did, he saw his elder cousin retrieving something from his book bag and place it precariously on top of his bag: the diary he'd picked up from Sal's room, with the hopes of finally deciphering what went on behind his cousin's brilliant eyes. "That!" he gasped.

"This diary's cursed," explained Sal patiently. "Your father slipped it into my possessions, thinking perhaps to get rid of me once and for all. I realized it for what it was immediately and I intended to find a way to destroy it." Their eyes met. "Then you took it away before I could. You nearly died."

"I didn't – I never thought—"

"Of course you doubt your father would hurt me," Sal snorted derisively. "He's always loved and protected you; you have a hard time imagining he could hurt anyone else, much less his nephew, when he's always been kind to you. Spare me excuses on Lucius' behalf. My point is: never touch this diary."

"But it might kill you as it nearly did me—!"

"I can handle it," said Sal stoutly. "Will you keep this a secret between you and me?"

"You don't want me telling anyone about the diary," surmised Draco miserably, kicking his legs in petulance. "Fine," he grouched.

Sal gingerly opened the diary, staring at the blank pages with blank eyes. Draco couldn't resist speaking up: "It talks back. Well, not talk exactly – but it writes and responds."

"It's sentient to a certain extent, yes," Sal confirmed, frowning slightly. As if this was only an intriguing instead of troubling thought. "It's because of your correspondence that it absorbs your life force. The more emotionally closer you get to the entity in the diary, the more like it takes from you."

Draco gulped. "You broke the curse?" Awe seeped into his voice before he could stop it.

Sal blinked. "It's not a curse – at least, not in the way you think it is. Dark Arts always leave a mark, Draco." The way Sal phrased it made Draco feel … tainted. Dirtied by a diary and its mystical powers. "You'll need Madam Pomfrey's expertise – if she clears you then that means the curse, so to speak, is gone."

Another thought struck Draco just as silence descended between the cousins, perhaps the most amiable silence they'd ever had. "Sal! The Chamber of Secrets, do you know—?"

"You opened it?" Sal queried shrewdly.

"Yeah, I suddenly became a Parselmouth and—" Excitement hyped Draco up. "Could it be that – that the Malfoys are really descendants of Salazar Slytherin?" Sal snorted, rolling his eyes, inciting the fiery resentment Draco always kept pent up towards his cousin; a resentment easily quelled by admiration. "What?" he demanded hotly. "You didn't think it was possible?"

"Serpensortia!" Sal's wand sliced the air: a snake landed with a thump on Draco's thighs. "Well, try talking to it." The snake hissed, rearing its triangular head, advancing on Draco.

The Malfoy heir tried not to be cowed by its beady, slitted, unblinking eyes. "Stay back! I command you!" No, he was speaking English.

Sal's wand moved again and the snake turned into a snake-scaled water goblet – _Vera Verto_. Sal smiled slightly as he picked the goblet up, examined it, then placed it on his sickbed's night table. "You're not a descendant of Salazar Slytherin; the last of his descendant is Lord Voldemort – you have no relation to him, do you?"

Grimacing, Draco shook his head. Sal nodded as if that settled matters. "The reason you could open the Chamber of Secrets was because this diary possessed you."

"How can the diary have such a power?" murmured Draco in confusion. For every answer Sal gave, more seemed to spring up out of nowhere.

"Because it's a creation of Lord Voldemort that your father got a hold of," Sal answered blandly. Draco blanched – why did Sal always use the Dark Lord's name so personally?

"I – I – I was possessed b-by the Dark Lord's creation?" he shrilled.

"Muffliato," muttered Sal out of the corner of his mouth. Then he turned back to Draco. "Yes. Unless you want to be hauled off for questioning and a possible stint in Azkaban for Death Eater association, then you'll do well to keep quiet?"

Draco nodded jerkily. "I … owe you for my life – I suppose?" he asked tentatively. A life debt was tricky sometimes but being connected this way to Sal didn't sound so bad; it was actually rather cool.

Sal shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." He stood, slipping the diary – the Dark Lord's – into his bag once more, as if he owned it, and made to leave. "Oh, and Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"Harry Potter's a loyal, good friend – don't lose him no matter what," warned Sal. Before Draco could ask further, his cousin had already stridden through the Infirmary doors, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

…

* * *

**The Estranged Star**

* * *

I thought the Basilisk fiasco was over – evidently, I had been naïve.

_You haven't won the war_, Tom Riddle had said. His words hadn't sunk in until now: seated in the Common Room, way past midnight and alone, pondering about the three newest additions to the Infirmary.

Two Muggle-borns and Argus Filch – the latter's case was something every student delighted about – had been Petrified. I had no doubts as to who had done it.

Though Draco strutted around the school with Harry – he'd discarded Crabbe and Goyle quickly enough for Potter – looking perfectly healthy and flushed with life, I know it had been him. He'd been unknowingly possessed by the diary, perhaps when he was asleep so he himself didn't know, even though I had been keeping it around me.

So here I was, waiting for Draco to maybe walk past, possessed.

This can't go on any longer.

I opened the blank diary and started writing: **_We need to talk._**

_I had been wondering where you were_, came the immediate response. _How is little Draco doing?_

**_Very well, thanks. The same can't be said for the Mudbloods. And Squibs._**

_Oh dear. Such a flaming shame! Dumbledore might even be sacked if this continues on! _Sarcasm practically bled onto the pages. I wanted to punch Riddle but I couldn't tell which part of the diary encompassed his privates.

**_Once he's been freed of the responsibilities of a Headmaster, I'm sure he can hunt Horcruxes without needing to worry about neglecting his duties._**

_… Are you a Lestrange or not?_

**_Of course I am!_**

_Then I suppose your blood-traitor tendencies come from your lack of proper parents and how your relatives have neglected you._

**_What do you know about neglect?_**

_Plenty, none of which I would like to share with you – at least not until you're willing to share._

**_Spit it out. Stop talking in riddles and get straight to the point._**

_Clever boy. I assume you can tell how utterly lacking your cousin's magical mastery and potential is? I cannot deal with such a medium. I need someone stronger. Would you do the honors?_

I had expected as much. I sighed, whisking hair out of my eyes, to write: **_What do you want done anyway?_**

_Freedom. Would you fancy being a book – a stationary, mundane item at that – Lestrange? I wish to rectify my older incarnation's mistake._

**_You're going to take over as the Dark Lord?_**

_That remains to be seen. I wish to seek my kin._

**_Your Muggle father and relatives?_**

_You know who they are?_

The Horcrux's question momentarily stumped me. Riddle had already killed his father's family. I couldn't remember how old he was when he killed them but maybe this Horcrux's memory only stretched to how much the fifteen-year-old Riddle knew – which meant that Riddle might've killed his parents during his seventh-year, a time in the future of this Horcrux and the past did not know the future. Horcruxes were complicated and I wasn't well-versed in those subjects.

**_They're dead. You killed them during the summer of your sixth year. I think._**

_Ah. Well, Lestrange, I suppose you won't share how you know all this … details … about me?_

**_And if I said your older self told me this?_**

The ink bled in and out, Riddle responded: _Preposterous. You're lying, I know. I can always tell. Even the part where you threaten to give me out to Dumbledore._

I stiffened. **_What? You don't think I'm a man of my words?_**

My writing was jagged, harried. I scowled because there was no correcting the word or erasing it. Wizards had a tough time understanding the concept of an eraser. Heck, pencils were so much easier to use and they didn't run out so quickly.

_Not in that sense. You have many chances to sell me out, to eradicate me, yet you didn't. However, you are not loyal to either Lord Voldemort or that pest Dumbledore. In conclusion, you've no reason to keep me safe – and for the sake of the argument, let's say I am in capable hands – and yet, I continue to exist. _

_After pondering my previous approach and how you responded to my presence, I've noticed that your arguments could've been more threatening. You clearly hold the upper hand – yes, I admit it – but you did not take advantage of that._

_You seem reluctant to turn me in – even when your cousin's life is at stake. Then I realized that – can you give me more ink?_

Riddle broke off abruptly, words growing ever fainter.

I was mildly shocked by the spiel but I had enough sense left to scribble: **_Tom Riddle got his ass kicked by a baby Potter._**

_You'll pay for that one, and unlike you, I'm a man of my words._ Riddle's words were bolder, not as faint.

**_You think I don't have the guts?_**

_I _think_ you have no idea what you're doing_. I stiffened at his words. _Such a waste. Knowledge is power; you have ample amounts of it. Does the power of knowledge you wield confound you? You have control over so much that you don't know where to start, what to control? You know the most intimate secrets of Lord Voldemort, perhaps even more so than what Dumbledore has been able to decipher. Instead of finishing off a weakened Dark Lord, you let him be._

_Your allegiance is to yourself. That is why you do not act in either Dumbledore's or Lord Voldemort's best interest. Ultimately, however, the only reason you didn't act is because you don't know what the outcome will be if you acted._

_Let me hazard a guess: you possess prodigious skill in Divination and you saw the future; you saw how things will unfurl – a future where both sides suffered heavy losses – and you desisted from taking sides, knowing what you stand to lose._

_On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate my guess?_

**_Nine_**, I wrote back, dazed. He could tell from one simple meeting? What was Tom Riddle, a psychic? **_Did you take Divination back in the day?_**

_One mark off, never mind, at least I was close. Yes, Professor Inigo Imago taught me. But this isn't about me. I didn't need Divination to be perceptive and introspective. I've thought about nothing but our last encounter, wondering where I've gone wrong in persuading you._

**_You need to get a life – something that doesn't include messing with others' lives._**

_The only way I can live is through whoever holds the diary; in a manner of speaking, you _are_ my life. You'll find I can be very helpful, Rasalas._

**_On first-name basis are we, Tom?_**

_You've earned the right; I reward those who are worthy. Admittedly, I wasn't at my best during our last confrontation or I would've gotten my way in the end._

**_I should just get rid of you._**

_Please don't. I appreciate your impartiality the most, it would be tragic if you were to stray._

**_Not as tragic as the choking death of Lord Voldemort._**

_Well, now, we can always aim for another goal. A different future where, preferably, Lord Voldemort is not choking in the background. Though I took Divination, I've never liked it. Life is an ever-revolutionizing process; every action you take now dictates the future, not a crystal ball. It's a wooly subject. I prefer carving my own future. I refuse to be shackled by the chains of fate._

_What say you?_

I closed the diary without answering, feeling tired, my eyes stinging in weariness. The power of Tom Riddle's persuasion was … beyond imaginable. For the first time, I envisioned myself doing something to change the course of the previously decisive future.

I slouched in my chair, head resting against the comforting cushion.

The only question was: what future did I want?

Cudgeling my brains made it harder to attempt sleep. After two fruitless hours, I rolled out of bed, pulled on my robes, grabbed the diary and my wand, and left the dormitory.

* * *

**The Estranged Star**

* * *

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Will it kill you live me alone?"

"Technically, I'm _not_ alive in that sense."

I glared at the infuriating construct of pages and memories: Tom Riddle, fifteen going onto a sixteen that would never come, and acting as if he was the king of the palace, lounged in front of me in the darkened library. The library closed at eight sharp and Madam Pince had left but sneaking had never posed a problem for me before.

"Be sure to return Draco's life force before the sun rises," I gritted out, frustrated at my own helplessness. Nothing I do – unless I truly destroy him – could rein him in. To add salt to the wound, I still didn't find the immediate need to dispose of him quickly.

Rather, I couldn't.

"Of course," he demurred, smiling the same smile that had beguiled his peers and professors during his time here as a student. I figured the only reason he was going to keep his word was because he didn't want me on his bad side. As he'd put it, I had the potential to be his most powerful ally as I knew the future, as I could easily be his worst foe. I was not looking forward to see how he'd sway me to his way of thinking.

I returned my gaze to the grimoire in front of me.

"Does nothing I do work on you?" asked Riddle curiously.

"You annoy me, you stress me out; I can't stop worrying about what you are going to do next. Everything you do works on my fraying patience and temper," I snapped.

"Thank you," he said, pleased. "Am I the reason you've been deprived of sleep?"

"I've always had the problem," I retorted coldly. I wished, deep down, Dobby was here. But summoning him to Hogwarts – while plausible – would only get him in trouble with Lucius, gives the sadistic bastard more reason to hurt my only friend.

Thinking about Dobby made me wonder how he planned on helping me deal with this wayward Horcrux. I hoped he'd show himself soon.

"Draco tells me you like someone watching you sleep," remarked Riddle casually. Smirking infuriatingly. I wanted to shove my fist down his throat.

"Dobby watches over me while I sleep," I corrected tersely, privately wondering how much Draco knew about me and how much he'd told Riddle.

"A house-elf," Riddle sneered.

"A house-elf that thwarted Voldemort before."

Riddle seemed only mildly interested; nothing I say was going to make him take house-elves seriously. Hmph. That's his problem, not mine. "You can sleep," Riddle crooned. "I know you're tired."

"Tired of you," I muttered, slumping in my seat.

"I'm here, I won't go anywhere. That defines watching over, no?" I opened my mouth to retort but his hand – quicker than I'd expected – threaded into my hair, pulling sharply, forcing my head into the desk. I cushioned my face with my arms.

"Hey!"

"Sleep," A soft order; nearly solid memory shifted through my hair, carding it, and for one fleeting moment – it was like Uncle Rab's hand patting my head to calm me down. I rolled tired eyes to Riddle, blinked – one, twice – and I was fast asleep.

… Problem was … it seemed barely ten minutes had passed before I was woken up by an almighty screech and clash.

I jerked awake, wand hitting the palm of my hand as I looked wildly around to see who had woke me up. "Dobby!" I realized, mouth agape in horror, as the house-elf chucked grimoires and books at the memory of Tom Riddle, screaming about keeping him away from me.

Riddle stared condescendingly down at the house-elf; his intangible form enabled books to be flung through him but his patience was wearing thin. He could reabsorb more of Draco's life-force – rendering my cousin invalid – to be solid enough to kill Dobby.

"Dobby, stop!" I commanded. The house-elf's thin arms trembled under the stilted weight of a thick history book. He dropped it with a thunk and whirled around to me, tennis-ball eyes wide in watery worry. "It's fine," I added to both of them, inserting myself between them.

My hand sank through Riddle's shoulder, dispersing him slightly. "Oh, sorry." The apology slipped out habitually. I tried not to stare as his form rippled once before reforming, looking completely whole and not translucent – the dark hid transparent parts in the shadows.

"The Dark Lord!" Dobby's eyes were popping in watery terror. I dropped to my knees in front of him, desperately trying to shush him before Argus Filch came knocking. Plus, Pince didn't sleep far from the library.

"Shh!" I ignored Riddle's snort and wrapped my arms around the house-elf. "It's okay … he's not going to hurt you… he's got no wand…"

"Actually, I do," Riddle informed me matter-of-factly, renewing Dobby's shudders of terror. He withdrew a thin wand I recognized as Draco's. I wanted to kick this bastard where it hurt but Dobby's safety came to mind first. I'm not sure how well that wand would work in his hand but I wasn't going to discount an Avada Kedavra from him. "How do you know me? Does the whole Wizarding World know who Lord Voldemort _was_?"

"No! We're just not stupid enough to believe Voldemor sprang up directly from the loins of a Basilisk nor was it remotely possible for him to crawl out of the bowels of Tartarus!"

Riddle stared at me strangely. "Basilisks are genderless, they _don't_ have loins. What are they teaching in Hogwarts these days?"

I was distracted by another thought to rise immediately to Hogwarts' defense. I couldn't stop my eyes from zeroing in on his naval and from how Riddle was staring distrustfully between me and my elfin friend, Dobby was also thinking the same thing. Dobby's fingers curled into my trousers, trembling from head to toe. His large eyes were glued onto the pre-Dark Lord's stomach.

"What?" he demanded.

"… You _do_ have a bellybutton … don't you?" I mean, he _did_ have a mother.

"You just said you're not foolish enough to believe the folklores surrounding the birth of Lord Voldemort." Riddle sneered disdainfully. Probably because he was a memory, he didn't blush, nor did he flush in fury.

"A silly notion," I said, though I was mollified. I focused on Dobby once more. "Dobby, what did you come here for? If Lucius catches you –"

"Dobby comes to check on Master Las, sir!" squeaked the elf, head whipping from me to Riddle. "Master Las, is – is he harming you?"

"He's leeching off Draco like a parasite that's what," I muttered.

"You can always try to hand me over to Dumbledore," suggested Riddle slyly. He did not seem remotely frightened at the prospect.

"Yes!" shrilled the house-elf. "That's what Master Las and Dobby should be doing, sir! Hand He Who Must Not Be Named in and the school – Master Las and Master Draco – will all be safe!"

"Sal won't do that, won't he?" Riddle interrupted. "He appreciates my company too much for that."

I suddenly thought of another reason why I can't hand Riddle over so boldly right now: if Lord Voldemort found out once he was resurrected – and Lucius wouldn't hesitate to lay all blame on me – that I was the last person in possession of the diary before it went missing and was subsequently destroyed … well, I doubt even my mother would defend me for thwarting the man she was in love with.

Dobby turned wide, betrayed, confused eyes on me. "I've no means to destroy," I muttered bitterly. "The Reductor Curse … the Blasting Curse … the diary's impervious to all of it."

"Maybe Headmaster Dumbledore knows it, sir," squeaked Dobby tentatively.

"I don't trust him either," I sighed. Sure Dumbledore was known to be kind to Harry but that's it – I'd only read the story from a Gryffindor's point of view. How did Dumbledore treat Slytherins, especially the children of Death Eaters? I'd never interacted with Dumbledore personally before – and the thought of doing so was intimidating – so I couldn't judge.

Riddle nodded smugly. "Yes, wise move. That old cockroach has always been prejudiced against Slytherin—"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Dobby's voice wavered, "is Hogwarts' greatest Headmaster!"

"And somehow, from what I've found out, hundreds of students died under his crooked nose." Riddle snorted.

I shot Riddle a sharp look. "No, they didn't. Dippet was in the office when Myrtle died. Only one student has died within Hogwarts walls in recorded history. All because of you."

Riddle's mouth pulled back, revealing teeth as he smiled darkly. "Silly," he admonished chidingly, like an elder brother to a particularly foolish toddler sibling. "How, precisely, did you think Dumbledore recruited so many canon fodders for his so-called _secret_ organization had he not handpicked his own students and introduced them to the idea? Germinated thoughts of how noble it'd be to serve in his Order. True, they graduated but they were still students of Hogwarts – children he'd taught – and he sent them to their deaths. What a hypocrite." His dark eyes met mine. "Why the surprise – you thought the sun shone out of his every orifice too? Sal, Sal – I thought better of you." Mocking me.

"You talk too much," I hissed icily, annoyed. Very annoyed. When you had glimpses into both Light and Dark, heard both their opinions, you'd be disheveled, unsure which side to pick. Each side dug up the filthy secrets and cons of the other side. In a nutshell, both sides had their goods and bad – the Light side tended to be hypocrites, the Dark side was murder-oriented.

I wanted to wave the white flag to both parties and bow my way out of their conflict. I wanted to run to America – my birthplace in my first life – or some other faraway country where I'd be ignored and could live to old age in obscurity. Submerge myself in the wonders of magic, study it, invent spells maybe. Have fun. Live a fulfilling life for once – one that would not be cut off tragically short like it did in the past.

With my current skill level however, I'd be killed if someone managed to trek me down. Somehow, I've got to graduate Hogwarts – by the time where my parents would've been out of Azkaban and Lord Voldemort would be rising once more – and flee without being detected.

Just a few more years now …

"What's wrong, Sal?" mocked Riddle, pulling me from my reverie. "Not feeling betrayed by the sanctimony of Dumbledore, are you?"

"A bit disappointed I've to admit." My murmur was voiced reluctantly, but honestly. "I mean – he always looks so kind and nice to others – right, Dobby?" My bottom lip pushed outward slightly into a petulant pout as I exchanged glances with my best friend.

"He is tricking you, Master Las!" shrieked the house-elf, pointing accusatorily at Tom Riddle. "He is lying! Do not believing him, sir! Headmaster Dumbledore is surely a kind, nice wizard, sir!"

I patted Dobby's head. His appearance was hideous but it was obvious to see that Dobby's heart was made out of purest gold. No human on earth could claim the same thing. I was profoundly disappointed in humanity – in how I was no different from my kind – and something must've showed in my face because Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"Trickery, playing on other people's feelings, manipulation – that was Dumbledore's cup of tea too." I sniffed, eyeing Riddle disdainfully. "Personally, I think the reason you two have never gotten along is because you're _too_ much alike. What makes Dumbledore superior is that he has never feared death, not like you."

"Fear death?" rasped Riddle, body drawn taut in anger, like a bow. "I do not fear that mortal weakness – I've transcended it!"

I eyed his form with growing detachment. A thorn in my side, a threat to Draco and everyone in the castle. I wouldn't be sorry to see him go and pass the blame of this Horcrux's destruction onto someone else. Hm, Crabbe and Goyle would be thick enough. Should start planning. Dobby can help.

"Your very existence somehow discounts the fact." Transcend death? If anyone had the right to boast, it was me. I who had gone through reincarnation as another person. As I'd never boasted about it, I somehow see very little right of him to brag.

"Return to the diary, Tom," I said, reaching for the aforementioned book, thrusting it at him, grimace fixed on my face, "because that's the only place you'll exist until you die."

Jaw clenched tight in anger, Riddle snatched the diary away and disappeared.

"Master Las," Dobby tugging on my pants, I looked down, and into his surprised eyes. "Are you pitying him, sir?"

I blinked, taken aback. "Me – pity the Dark Lord? I don't want anything to do with him, that's what."

"But Master Las' eyes say differently sir, Dobby sees such."

I snorted. "Trust me, Dobby, the only person connected to Riddle I feel remotely sorry for is his mother."

**~{VIII}~**

* * *

**AN:  
**You know, I did wonder how a secret organization was formed if it was so secret. So Dumbledore must've appealed to them for their teamwork. Unless he posted ads in the Daily Prophet.

More confrontation this chapter. But the next chapter will have more of a conflict. Bottom line: Sal won't have a peaceful moment in his life at all.

Also, I've started another HP SI - though it's more of a rewrite of a deleted story - and I'll like it if you guys and check it out. Not sure if TMR will be featured prominently there though. Depends.

**Question:** Do you have a good grasp on Sal's character so far? Or any questions about him?

_**R&amp;R**_


	10. ix

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

Chapter IX

* * *

_You knew my mother?_

**_Can it, Riddle. I'm in class._**

_Please, if you were really invested in the class, why would you have the diary open? Last night –_

**_You're just a diary, she's dead, and your current incarnation doesn't care about that fact._**

_It's unfair; you know more about my mother than I do._

**_You _****hate_ her._**

_My future incarnation – speaking from my point of view – does, not me._

**_You're curious?_**

_Ah, Sal, that is the curse of humanity._

**_Fine, so see: Merope Gaunt was abused by her remaining family to the point her magical ability was cumbered and she was little more than a Squib. Once she was free, she made Amortentia to charm your father and she, in a manner of speaking, forced herself upon him. You were conceived, the enchantment on Riddle Sr. broke because she couldn't bear to enslave him anymore, tricked herself into thinking that he might've loved her back after a few months. She was wrong; he freaked and he ran off; she died, you were born. End of story._**

The diary was unresponsive for a long, long time. I paid half an ear to what Professor Quirrell was saying, distinctly aware that Rosier was the one sitting beside me. Usually, it was Adrian but ever since he caught Riddle in my bed, he had been very cold. Shoulders jerking in the other direction when I made an attempt to speak to him.

Rosier and Montague did not try to get us to speak. I similarly did not want to put pressure on them. They didn't have to choose between me and Adrian; and we were not ticking time bombs that would go off at the wrong prod.

_It …_ The tentative scrawl of words had my gaze drawn onto it like magnet – to be fair, I consoled myself, a diary that responds is typically more interesting than what a teacher has to say. The diary scrawled: _It was to my understanding the Muggle filth left my mother because she was magic._

**_On the account that your mother's skin was in the way, you didn't know._**

**_Can you smell anything in Amortentia? You scented nothing, true?_**

_I was unaware there now exists a magic power to look into the past. What are you, Rasalas Lestrange?_

I ignored him. Leaving him dangling would keep him on his edge, always wanting to know more. If I gave him what he want, he might deem me of no more use to him and try to dispose me. I'd prefer to not be on the constant lookout. I prefer a relaxing life thanks.

Which was starting to seem like a faraway dream, a mirage in a desert.

**_The circumstances of your birth left you with several missing components. Namely, the inability to feel human, empathy, compassion, love._**

_Did Dumbledore that fool open up an optional class of love lessons fifty years down the future? I wouldn't put it past him._

**_Dumbledore was privy to that knowledge, yes._**

_I detest this._

**_What, that you're a diary? Regret, repent and this pain will ease. (And save me the trouble.)_**

_No. That you, a stranger, know so much about me – it is disconcerting, humiliating and a complete invasion of my privacy. Do I not have my rights?_

**_You're a book. What rights do you have? To not have your pages folded and front-and-back covers torn?_**

_My rights as a person._

**_You're not human_****,** I found the prudent need to remind him – and myself – of this. It was hard to associate this Horcrux as just a diary, an object unfeeling of its surroundings, because I could practically feel his frustration bleeding onto the page.

_Yesterday, you told your elfin friend you do not pity me. I do not _need_ pity – in fact, I implore you to not direct such abhorrent feelings towards me – but I find it urgent to inform you one thing, Lestrange: you are lying to yourself and it's – you are – _pathetic_. You dehumanize me on purpose, because you know your bleeding heart cannot stop feeling for me. My mother wasn't the only one you feel sorry for; I'm sure, from what I know of you, that in some part of your heart, you've scrapped enough rubbish to spare for Tom Riddle too._

_You are too kind, too gentle, too weak – Dumbledore will wring you dry, Lestrange, mark my words._

I closed the diary without writing back, slumping on my front, burying my face in my arms.

Was it wrong that I wanted to have inherited Bellatrix's cruelty? For some shred of Rodolphus' offhanded indifference to human lives?

"Sal?" probed Rosier in a low whisper, poking at my side. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Never would I admit Riddle was damned right.

**o0O0o**

Two months passed without incident. I distinctly recalled Halloween would be the time where Ron and Harry would befriend Hermione due to the troll incident. But as far as I could see, Harry wasn't close to his Gryffindor Housemates, and Draco spent a lot of time with Harry. I still couldn't completely swallow my surprise when I saw them – just two boys – laughing together.

Draco seemed to believe Harry was a good person too. Draco was sympathetic to Harry's plight of being stuck with hateful, neglectful Muggles and actively expressed his disdain for the Dursleys; they took roundly verbal abuse of the Dursleys. I was also sure Lucius Malfoy was exceptionally delighted to have Harry Potter close to his son, more political power and influence. It'd be pandemonium once the Dark Lord was back.

Hermione kept to herself, never seen to be speaking to anyone; Ron wandered around the castle with his pack of Gryffindors.

I shouldn't be surprised that, eventually, Draco would use Harry's popularity as a means to an end – to get me to interact more with them, on the account that I would be interested in the Boy-Who-Lived too.

"Hello," I said politely, purposefully sliding the diary into my bag and mustering a polite smile for both of them.

Actually, I was freaking out: should I throw the diary out the window before –?

"Can you help us?" asked Harry interestedly, looking me in the eye. Green against blue; forest looking into electricity. "With our Potions homework…"

"I'm not, um, that good with Potions," I tried to hedge. Tried not to look nervous. Tried to look casual as my eyes drifted around the quiet library. Shoulders tautened in alert excitement when I saw bushy hair at the corner of my eye.

Hermione Granger was a frequent visitor of the library; she was as attached to the place as I was to the Room of Requirement where I spent an unhealthy amount of allotted time in. Thus far, she had always remained alone. And I had no reason to approach her. I liked her character and little Hermione was just adorable – the last thing I wanted was to draw Riddle's attention to her.

"Even a little help is better than none!" Draco chipped in. Blonde hair slicked back, cheeks rosy with his life blood, no indication he was a boy possessed. I resisted the urge to stab Riddle repeatedly with a quill.

"What about that girl over there?" I gestured to Hermione Granger, unaware. Thick brown hair brushed over the chair she was sitting on as she shifted.

Draco's face twitched. "But she's a Mud—" Caught my eye, remembered young, naïve yet chivalrous Harry. "_Muggle_-born. There's no way she knows more than us! And our ancestors will be spinning in our graves if they knew a girl not of wizarding family knows more – well, it's just disgraceful!" He added the last bit defensively at the increasingly blank stares coming from me and Harry.

"Draco, a word." I dragged him away, bag with me. Harry met my eyes curiously. I flitted my eyes deliberately to Hermione. And he walked towards her. I slung an arm around Draco, ducking low to whisper in his ear. "Listen, Draco – I know your general beliefs and if your father hears of you associating with a Muggle-born, no doubt I'll be blamed. But don't you see? She's smarter than the rest of you put together!"

Draco scowled, cheeks red in indignation and embarrassment. "Sal!"

"She's got _no friends_." I emphasized meaningfully. Draco fell silent, waiting. "It's this type of people who are the most trusting … most desperate for kindness and friendship … it's—"

"The perfect opportunity to gain her trust, milk her for all she's worth before she's dry and chuck her away to be trampled on!" finished Draco triumphantly, grinning.

"Uh…" What I meant to say was: _it's the best opportunity for you to hone your compassion by interacting with them and to learn empathy and how to appreciate companionship_. Before I could amend Draco for this gross misinterpretation, he'd already shrugged my arm off. Still smiling the warm smile he rarely showed outside of his manor, he said, "My apologies for doubting you, Sal. I should've seen what you meant from the beginning – no, I shouldn't have needed you to point this out to me—"

"Wait a min—"

"I've got a lot to learn about the Slytherin way, I know what you're going to say." Draco waved me away, lazy grin still curling his mouth. "I'll try harder, you just wait and see – soon, you won't need to look further than me to see a perfect representation of Slytherin!"

Then he'd zoomed off towards Hermione and Harry. Leaving me to gape in shock at where he'd been standing.

Sometimes, he made me feel as if I'd been talking in another language entirely.

**o0O0o**

The troll is going to break in today.

The clarity of this realization made me alert for the rest of the day. However, before my day had even begun, conflict and problems were already trolling me. Haha, see what I did there?

… Never mind.

"What's going on?" I asked, surprised by the big gathering in the Common Room. The dozens of Slytherins made an impenetrable ring – or so I thought. The moment I'd spoken, they scattered like dust, as if I'd brandished a whip and cracked it against stone for attention.

I pretended I did not hear the gawking and the muttering going on behind curtains of hair and covers of palms. Surprise doubled when I saw Draco and Marcus Flint in the middle of the commotion. The Beaters of the Slytherin team – Lucian Bole, a brunette with eyes as dark, and Peregrine Derrick, a redhead with hazel eyes – flanked Flint, but Draco was alone.

Graham Montague fought his way to me, Conrad Rosier materialized by my side so quickly he might as well have Apparated here. The only one missing from our gang of four – the last one who made up the dormitory – was Adrian Pucey; he watched sullenly from the sidelines, resentment etched into his frown.

Why is it that I always seem to arrive late, find out the latest news, the last?

Quelling my indignation with the consolation that Rosier and Montague always kept me well-informed in the end, I stepped forward.

"I'll appreciate it if you don't demonstrate how Muggles duel on my cousin," I hissed icily, protectiveness rearing like a snake ready to strike. My wand was rolled in my palm, a show of intimidation; that I was not afraid to duel to get my meaning across: _leave him alone._

Draco flushed with pleasure at being defended. His parents had inculcated into him that he must stand on his own two feet, but being protected meant you were adored, cared for – there was always pleasure in being protected just as frustration would well at your own helplessness.

Marcus Flint glanced at me calculatingly. "We were merely, ah, inquiring Draco about his recent choice of companions."

"You mean the Granger girl he associates with." I frowned. True, I had not taken the reaction of the entire House into account when I tried to make them befriend one another.

Slytherin had a hierarchy within its walls. There were loners that sided with no faction, would not cause trouble for the King at the top, but would still obey when necessary. Then there were the followers, flanking the King. How you came to be in position was generally determined by blood: who you were, how pure your blood was, which family you came from, who your parents were.

Marcus Flint was King in the hierarchy simply due to the popularity of being the Captain of the Quidditch team. Bah. Ludicrous way of choosing your king.

I was candidate for King. Parents in Azkaban; son of famed supporters of Voldemort, among the Darkest witch and wizard in Magical Britain. My entitlement to be Lord Black and Lord Lestrange boosted me, too. It kept any vultures and bullies away.

However, looking into the predators that lurked here, I couldn't help but feel reluctant admiration for Tom Riddle who would be in secondhand robes – Hogwarts' orphan funds were pitifully cheap – and of Muggle background, with a Muggle name.

It must've been hell here. For him, before he gained the upper-hand with his Parseltongue, intelligence and sheer ambition to be more, to be better.

(Where I stood was where a monster had been born and molded by its inhabitants)

"How is that any of your business?" I snapped waspishly.

"A Malfoy consorting with the Boy-Who-Lived is already a stretch of disbelief, and a Mudblood to top it all off?" Flint made a big show of grimacing. "What a shame to the family name. And it's my business, _Sal_."

I twitched in annoyance at the use of my nickname. "You are not remotely familiar enough with me to address me as such—"

Flint rolled his eyes. "Ah, Sal." I stared at him in utter bewilderment as he strode towards me, arms outstretched as if to embrace me. We'd hardly exchanged a sentence to one another; why the sudden familiarity? Rosier hissed like a snake, a wordless warning to stay back. "Just because I gave you semi-authority over the House for warming my bed—"

A scandalized gasp rippled across the Common Room. My heart turned to ice, sinking straight to my gut to the floor.

"Shut your mouth!" snarled Montague, trying to salvage the situation.

There was a ringing in my ears. Electric in my eyes, my gaze sought Adrian out. Our gazes sizzled as they clashed; my shocked ones staring into his conflicted ones. It was the guilt in the furrow of his brows, the set of his pressed-together lips that nailed the coffin.

_You … planned this … this commotion, the scene with Draco – all to gather spectators for the real show, my humiliation._

Bile clawed up my throat as memories rushed into sight, demanding attention, of the stares and whispers directed at me in the hallway by my fellow Slytherins.

_I thought we were best friends. You were my first human friend._

A part of me wanted to cry. To run and shrivel up somewhere in embarrassment. But my wand took charge before I did: magic twinned in the wood and expelled a hail of snow and stones of ice. The Slytherins scattered with startled and frightened cries.

A mousy-haired first-year lurched towards the entrance.

The tip of my wand cut through the cold, a jet of blue arc sliced through the air currents: the air by the exit solidified into ice, forming jagged protrusions – icicles. They've got nowhere to run. They had to listen to me. I couldn't bear live the rest of my years here in shame, tainted by calumny.

But begging for reason, for them to see sense would do no good. Not in Slytherin House where only power mattered.

I stormed to the exit, whirled around, planted myself firmly there to deliver the clear message that no one was leaving until I dictated so; the first-year scrambled away from me. Everyone breathed in quick, frightened wisps of cold air, exhaling white mist. Watching me.

"_So…_" It took me a few seconds to work through the cold fury in my throat, blocking my words. "So this is the reason why everyone of you have been looking slantwise at me … and no one bothered saying anything … not one—"

I broke, and words tore themselves out of my throat in a piercing, ringing shriek as my self-restraint shattered:

"_You _dare_ cast such aspersions on my person? I'm better than all of you and nothing you jealous mongrels who susurrate behind my back say will make you, in any way, superior to me!__ I will not tolerate such disrespectful behavior in _MY – yes, mine, all of this –_ House! Any vilification will be brought to my attention, not a moment delayed, and I will end any such libel before you foolish, moronic individuals could fall prey to such spurious claims!"_

My mouth twisted in spite, in fury. My chest heaved; my whole body was sickly hot even as icicles descended from the ceiling, touched the ground – a jail of icy spikes. My Housemates had already shied so far away half of them were practically taking refuge in their dormitory. I looked away from Adrian, from Flint, before I lost it and froze them cell by cell.

Hot tears threatened to melt my eyeballs from inside. Strong emotions always elicited tears from me, needless to mention, betrayal.

"Draco – Rosier – Montague –" I turned, breaths shuddery. Eyelashes catching moisture that froze as it escaped the confines of my eyes. "We're leaving."

The ringing silence was broken by Draco's trotting footsteps, of Rosier picking up my fallen bag and the whisper of Montague's robes on ice.

The stone wall edged back, ice wedged in the small gaps between the brickwork, and I stormed through it, the ice crystallizing behind me once my entourage was through.

I'd been disgraced, the realization was a douse of hot water over my head, my reputation was in ruins and it fucking hurts.

"Sal—" began Draco tentatively, hand touching the hem of my sleeve once we'd rounded the hallway.

"Er, your bag—" Rosier started the same moment.

"We'll be late for class—Rasalas!" Montague yelped as I streaked past him in a flight of humiliated fury. His cry of my name masked the sob and I couldn't be gladder about it.

**o0O0o**

"Go – away – I mean it, Riddle – you're the absolute last person I want to see."

"How did you know it was me?"

"I know; I always know."

"Oh, throwing my own words into my face, I see." There was the click of a lock being turned to block unwanted intruders; the shifting of silky material and the dusty fabric I'd been taking refuge under was moved. Back against a cool, reflective surface, legs pulled to my chest, creating a gap where I could hide my face in – I had not moved from this position in a while.

My cheek tingled as his fingers brushed through flesh: he was not corporeal enough currently to be in physical contact.

"Draco's supposed to be in class," I sighed. "Can't you let people study in peace? Not everyone's smart as you, we need education."

"Classes were postponed; everyone's got a free period. Thanks to you." I tightened my grip round my shins, unwilling to move even though I was curious to find out why. "The professors could hardly miss how the Slytherins were absent from their designated classes; they went to look and found the Slytherins hypothermic and frostbitten – the other professors had to pitch in and move them to the Infirmary. Draco left to find you, with the diary in tow, and well – I stored him some other place before coming."

"How did you find me?"

"I know; I always know," he mocked. A pause. I still didn't get why he was here. Instead of seizing the opportunity to cause chaos. Just to be sure, I lifted my head to check if it was him.

Riddle's form flickered indecisively, unable to stay true. Okay, it was him in the flesh. Riddle's upper lip curled. "You look awful," he remarked and from anyone else, the statement would've been accompanied with a chortle of mocking amusement.

"Not as bad as your older incarnation," I bit back, irate.

"Why do you shed such mortal weakness?" I think he meant the tears I'd shed. Talk about fanciful words. Riddle arched a curious brow, inspecting me not unlike a scientist would a newly discovered specimen. Perhaps a surviving dinosaur from billions back.

"You're telling me there's no use crying over spilled potion?" I sounded awful. Did I cry that long? Bet my eyes were red and puffy.

"That was a dramatic display of power – not my style, but enough to reign in others. No potion was spilled, not as much as bridges were burnt, at any rate." I looked Riddle in the eye. It was Adrian's guilt that gave him away – that he had second-thoughts only when the act was carried out still embittered my feelings towards the good memories of him – and now, it was Riddle's amusement that gave him away.

"You—" I sprang to my feet so abruptly the fabric hiding me fluttered to the ground. "_Bastard_!" I shrieked, jabbing an accusatory finger in his face. "You did this – you planned it – possessed Draco and planted the idea in Adrian's mind no doubt – probably even Confunded – Imperiused—"

Riddle was unfazed; he crossed his arms, expression still saturated in amusement, down at the boy who barely came up to his shoulder. "Baseless accusations, Sal. But I am generous enough to understand: you're desperate to salvage a bridge from cinders, you'll make anything up to believe Adrian did not betray you so thoroughly. I assure you, however, I've not done anything of the sort."

"Liar!" I sounded like a kindergartener.

Perhaps he thought the same because his cold smirk told as much. "Assuming the worst of me, are you?"

"Assuming the best of you is no different than assuming the opposite! Case in point: you're the most brilliant, despicable, conniving arse to walk his earth – those are your best attributes!"

Riddle's jaw worked; teeth grinding in anger, it created a sound that foretold an impending suffering. His smoldering eyes shifted to rest on my neck, and a point beyond it. The falter in the burn of anger in his eyes made me turn around, puzzled by what had caught his attention so thoroughly.

A mirror that nearly touched the ceiling was what stood behind me. I edged away; finding the inscription on the golden frame, I realized I was looking at the Mirror of Erised.

"A mirror that reflects your desires," whispered Riddle in hushed tones, sharing a secret I already knew. He saw my expression from the corner of his eye and he sneered. "But I suppose Mr. Knows-It-All already knew what this is … what do you see? The restoration of your friendship with Pucey? Power and fame?"

Could a memory look into the mirror and see something?

I was curious about what Riddle saw and it distracted me from the wetness on my cheeks. I hastened to wipe them away, clear my vision, and took a step back to look better into the reflective surface.

The girl who materialized instead of my reflection was someone I had not seen in a long, long time: me, the me from my last life. She was holding my wand, even though in reality, she could not have had magic or wands in that world.

The moment I saw her, I knew what I had so desperately desired but had buried because it was unattainable.

I wished I had not been Rasalas Lestrange, in the body of a male I had taken years to adjusting to, with parents that were murderers and expected their son to be one too. I wished I was just me – _Selena Idi_ – with magic as an integral part of my life.

The only thing I wished to keep of this world was magic – and Dobby.

A sigh of longing escaped me. "Does the desire of friendship bring such craving?" Riddle's scathing tone ripped me from my drowsy wistfulness.

I pinched my arm to shake myself awake. Looked around to see Riddle marginally unaffected by the Mirror of Erised. "I saw something else – a carefree life without worry and only the wonders of magic."

Riddle inclined his head, eyes glued to the reflection once more – was he or was he not seeing things in it? "How was it portrayed?" he asked me, sounding genuinely curious instead of one who was fishing subtly for information.

I darted another look at the mirror, saw no harm in answering his inquiry. "I see myself, performing magic – for Dobby's amusement. Mm, he's not the central focus – I see only the top of his batty ears and his fingers waving at the edges of the mirror – but I'm laughing and I'm happy – that's what it's supposed to mean, yeah?"

"Such potential, such a waste of magical power in you," sighed Riddle. "Not a bone of ambition. I might not be as severely disappointed by the Slytherins of this generation had you just said you're performing magical feats you've never dreamed of."

"Well, excuse me for not seeing myself as a megalomaniac Dark Lord," I said indignantly; indignation stirred awareness in me, warning me of the dangers the Mirror entailed. I focused my gaze solely on Riddle's cheek, a far safer sight than the Mirror was. Given a side view like this, I thought his cheekbones were in perfect symmetry – was that even possible? And his lashes brushed his high cheekbones too, they were _that_ long – almost like a girl's.

Was this stir in my chest jealousy? I touched my eyelashes subconsciously, realizing they were not as long as Riddle's and grimaced. I tried to quell my jealousy by informing myself, mentally, that I could be considered handsome too. Rodolphus and Bellatrix had the classical pure-blood good looks; as their son, I couldn't have missed that gene.

Really.

"What did you see?" I asked to change the subject.

"Something not shown in your visions of the future and past I suppose?" Riddle sneered.

"… You're standing on a mound of bodies … the top of which lays Albus Dumbledore, broken and defeated … and you're swinging your wand atop your bald head like a lunatic with a lasso …"

The imagery made my lips twitch into a smile. I chuckled before I could stop it.

Riddle didn't mimic my amusement nor did he have my sense of humor. He scowled and tossed the Mirror a contemptuous look, as if it'd cussed violently at him. "While your reasoning is plausible, I cannot confirm nor deny it: this Mirror is not working for me, a Horcrux."

"A shadow of the past," I quipped.

His scowl darkened dangerously. But pissing him off had cheered me up: I preened under the knowledge that only I could anger a teenaged Voldemort and get away without being Crucio'ed or AK'ed. So far anyway.

"I see only you and I in this abandoned classroom … staring at a Mirror that only wastes people's time." Riddle's initial impression of the Mirror as a magnificent magical artifact was evidently going down the drain faster than a leopard could sprint.

"Ye who see only power is a greedy, selfish creature."

Riddle cast me an irritated look; he had no wand to hex me. "And I suppose you'd praise yourself a saint for seeing something as harmless as happiness?"

I'd never thought about it that way. The Mirror only showed myself happy – what about others? They might've been suffering for all I know. Did I care? Did the person portrayed in the Mirror cared that others were in agony while she was enraptured in joy and magic?

No. She probably wouldn't even give them a grain of thought.

My mouth turned downwards at each edge. "No," I said flatly. "Happiness always comes at the expense of others. It's priceless, even more so than the Philosopher Stone or Elder Wand, simply because it is not something that can be grasped easily. Even the Mirror cannot capture happiness fully because it does not grant happiness and it doesn't know what true joy is: what do I do to achieve happiness? I truly desire to know but the Mirror offers no solution, only a desirable outcome that is implausible."

"Apropos, it's a ludicrous piece of artifact that only weak-minded fools lose themselves in. Dreaming but not willing to try." Riddle glowered at the offensive Mirror for another minute before he turned and walked away, disappearing just before he reached the door.

The reason to his abrupt leave was answered almost immediately: footsteps thundered closer. Before I could attempt to hide, the door flew open and my cousin tumbled in gracelessly. Nymphadora, pink hair windswept, doubled over to catch her breath.

"Sal – _thank Merlin_ – found you at … at last!" she wheezed. "Sent Mum a letter – searched the whole school – what were you _thinking_?!" She straightened, paused for another lungful of breath – giving me the edge of time to muster a smirk – and added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and Dumbledore's looking for you. He asked us to send you to his office as soon as we've found you."

Oh shit.

My stomach seemed to have left me with a whoosh.

**~{IX}~**

* * *

**AN:**  
Somehow, when Tom and Sal get together, they always get talkative, right? Noticed that? Figured that's not the romance you people like, figured that I should explain it. Firstly, I get that physical attraction plays a key role in romance. But what about those couples where one or both of them have faces like dough or clays mashed haphazardly together? No offense, but apropos: something aside from first cursory glance to take in attractiveness must've connected them. (Unless some people actually go, 'I'm ugly, you're ugly, let's go out!' then consider what I'm saying sawdust)

For Tom and Sal, though neither is hideous, it's something like that – they need words and experience to connect, to build something from scattered pieces of their differences. For example, though we understand where Sal comes from and how he knows the future and past all the same, Tom doesn't – so, Sal's an enigma to him, a puzzle he wants to piece together, a kingdom he'd yet to conquer. For that reason, he pays attention and notices stuff he usually doesn't care to notice; and with Sal's wariness of Tom, it's vise versa. There'll be a lot of manipulation, arguments and vicious plotting to hurt one another before anything loving (or as close to this as TMR could get) comes in though. Plus, I don't think I can describe Sal going, 'Wow, he's hot! I think this is love at first sight!'

If you're interested, I've another HP SI/OC story Darker Than Black.

**R&amp;R**


	11. Chapter 11

_**x**_

**тнє єѕтяαиgє∂ ѕтαя**

ten

_**x**_

"How dare that brat – ?!" decried Nymphadora, outraged on my behalf once I'd finished recounting my tale of woe to her. Her hair turned red with a loud pop. "Professor Dumbledore's got to go easy on you! That Flint and Pucey brats deserve it!"

I smiled slightly at her easy support. Unlike Draco who only craved my support, Nymphadora actually gave it. Though I'd known Draco longer, these two cousins of mine have the same place in my heart.

"It's okay, Nymph," I assured her.

Nymphadora decided to let my use of that nickname slide – for now. "Cedric's in shambles from worry, you should talk with him once Dumbledore's through with you … if you come out alive." We came to a halt before the gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's office. She looked intimidated as she eyed the stone statues warily. "For all the trouble I've gotten into, I'd never enter that place … it's for those who're bound to be expelled, I hear – not that it'd necessarily happen to you," added Dora hastily when she saw how white my face had gone. "Good luck." She tried to squeeze my hand in support but when it ended with an aching shoulder on my part for attempting to dodge, and running into the wall in the process, she desisted and just smiled one last time before departing.

I was alone.

I half-expected Snape to there, which would not help my nerves because he ostensibly hated my parents too. Thus I was surprised to find myself even more intimidated when only Dumbledore stood there, waiting.

He smiled at me, blue eyes twinkling like stars. They really twinkled as the books described; like shiny silver brandished under a bright sun. I offered him a tentative smile, resuming a seat when he gestured for me to do so.

"May I hear from you what happened?" he inquired gently, not accusatorily.

I blinked at his desk. "Didn't you ask others for their account of the story?"

"They were afraid to speak out against you," said Dumbledore kindly.

"Oh." I must've frightened them something fierce. Keeping my voice a low mumble, I reiterated what I'd told Dora, with a few alternations. And obvious omitting of who was actually in my bed. I hoped Dumbledore wouldn't ask: there wasn't an underage-sex rule enforced within the castle. Students in fourth-year and above were likely to be let off the hook for trysts but anyone below that age was considered too young. I think.

Then again, while extremely rare, it had happened before: teenage pregnancy, I mean. Case in point: my grandparents: Cygnus Black had been thirteen when my mother was born, Druella only three years older. My grandmother was a dropout, by the way.

A smothering silence descended upon us once I was done.

Dumbledore sighed gently. "Have a lemon drop, Mr. Lestrange."

"Have – oh." The bowl was levitated to my face. I had no choice but to take one even though I was no fan of lemon. "Thank you." I nibbled on the sweet as I nervously awaited my punishment.

"Children can be cruel," I tensed at the beginning of the sentence, "Swayed by negative emotions, they lash out without thinking. Like Mr. Pucey, I'm sure you're well-acquainted with what I'm saying."

I didn't dare look into Dumbledore's eyes: Riddle must be kept away from his scrutiny. Lord Voldemort did not forgive nor would he forget. If Riddle were to be destroyed, and I was the last person to be in touch with it … no amount of begging and reasoning would work on the man whose sanity had shattered decades ago. I didn't look forward to being Frank Longbottom Ver. 2.0: Voldemort would surely make my mother's Cruciatus Curse a sweet caress in comparison.

I shuddered slightly. Then I recalled Dumbledore would be awaiting a response. "Just get on with the punishment," I bit out, belatedly adding, "Sir."

"If I were in charge, Dumbledore," the nasally voice of my ancestor – Phineas Nigellus Black – said, "I would've let the boy off with privileges taken from him instead of scrubbing the floor. Maybe even points for this magnitude of magical feat." He smirked down at me.

"It's his attitude that is the problem," Dippet, Dumbledore's predecessor, interrupted, "We cannot have wizards rampaging in the streets simply because they cannot control their emotions! Hogwarts was built on that foundation; to right that wrong!"

"I'll practice Occlumency," I snapped at the infuriating blob of painting, eyes finally lifted from the Headmaster's desk.

"It's not a branch of magic taught in Hogwarts curricula," Dumbledore inputted gently.

"I have Aunt Cissa at home to teach me," I sniffed imperiously. I hoped Dumbledore wouldn't call me out on my obvious avoidance of eye-contact: there were only so many times I could let my gaze flit over the silver instruments decorating his office, admittedly stuff of which I'd never seen.

A fleeting assessing gaze had me registering that Dumbledore was smiling benignly. "Mr. Lestrange, you are a student of Hogwarts – and what is Hogwarts if not a school that educates its young in what they need to succeed in the real world?" I forgot to avoid looking directly at him for a moment, surprised. He sounded like he was actually going to— "Professor Snape is an accomplished Occlumens," said Dumbledore, "You will benefit from his guidance, I believe, Mr. Lestrange."

"What's the catch?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. I gripped the handles of the chair, knuckles whitening. "I'll have you know using this lesson as a ruse to gain access into my mind is pointless – I know _nothing_ of Death Eater activities, I have no information to give. You know – you know my parents were sent to Azkaban when I was just a toddler." My voice cracked in spite of my best efforts.

"I remember the trial many years ago, Mr. Lestrange, for it was I who held you when you cried, until you were calm enough for your aunt to retrieve you."

_… Say what?!_

"You?! Really?!" I cried, mortified. Several Headmasters shot me disapproving looks for my admittedly rude tone. "I – sorry, I only remember seeing the Dementors taking away my family – not the part where people offer false consolation when they only wished I'd die to save them another Dark Wizard in their ranks—"

"I'm sorry that you've been orphaned in such a way." The dip of his mouth was mournful; the lines on his face seemed to sag, dragging his whole face down too. "However, your parents have made children your age orphans too."

"Neville Longbottom, you mean." Wasn't his mother alive and sane…? That's more than what I have, don't you think?

The smile that suddenly spread across Dumbledore's face was alarming. "Ah, forgive an old man's reminiscences. In the perils of old age, I'm constantly consumed by haunting what-ifs." True wistfulness crossed his aged face; perhaps the same expression I've worn not too long ago. "Your parents could've been much more than that they are now, I won't sugarcoat the fact I believe they've chosen the wrong path, and the consequence is sitting before me – where their own son can only be chided by his Headmaster instead of his parents for causing trouble in school.

"And speaking of consequences … yes, I think that will do." I tried not to gulp. I think my throat bobbed nervously. "For the next month, you'll be tutoring Neville Longbottom."

…

And here I thought he actually _liked_ Neville.

**~{X}~**

"You'll be spending every Friday, Saturday and Sunday with Longbottom?!" spat Draco. Assaulted before I'd even taken six steps into the Common Room.

"Not of my own accord," I said coldly. I'd rather be tutored by Riddle: at least he'd have something substantial to give me. Unlike what I had to give Longbottom. Worse, if Neville didn't improve by the end of one month, it'd continue until next month and possibly even the whole year. And the next.

Talk about Cruciatus Curse.

Draco furrowed his brows. Something about the gesture struck me as familiar but I couldn't place it immediately. "… Can I join too? Me, Harry and Granger?"

"Yes, Granger might be useful here – and the presence of fellow Gryffindors ought to help calm him down."

"It's really torture, this detention," said Draco sympathetically, loping after me, either ignoring or not caring how the scant few Slytherins – those not too heavily affected by hypothermia or frostbite and had been released from the Infirmary – had scattered to the four winds once they saw me approaching. "I mean, Longbottom's really … well, his mind's really a long bottom – it'd take years for a spot of knowledge to reach the bottom where his brain is."

I laughed. Draco grinned up at me – I was taller by a few inches. "You should be grateful you won't be alone, Sal," added Draco slyly.

"So very grateful," I agreed.

"Oh, and – the super secret diary," Draco handed me Tom as he spoke, "I didn't write in it." Only now I realized he was wearing dragon-hide gloves as he handled the book. I snorted softly, taking it from him with bare hands: I was unafraid of it. "Are you sure you're safe with it?"

"I'm safekeeping it for the Dark Lord," I lowered my voice to a whisper.

We reached the entrance to his dormitory. I waited for him to leave but he just bit his lip, frowning. "You … you truly believe the Dark Lord will come back?"

My answer was "Yes," without hesitation.

"…Oh." Then without another word, Draco turned and left. Poor kid. I didn't want the impending doom he'd go through to start weighing heavily on his mind when he was just eleven but the thing was – I couldn't protect him. Not when I was scarcely certain of my own survival.

Not when another challenge presented itself in the form of my dormitory.

Adrian wasn't there, that was good. Rosier and Montague, both of whom had escaped the tomb of ice, stopped whispering between them the moment I entered. "Hey, Sal!" greeted Rosier cheerfully, smile only looking slightly forced.

I blinked at him. Then at the clock beside his night table. It was way past dinner – Halloween's feast was a delight, uninterrupted by any trolls.

_That's it!_

No trolls! Even though today should've been the day Quirrell caused a distraction just to steal away with the Philosopher's Stone … unless … something else had been seized as a distraction … an opportunity …

The Slytherins shepherded to the Infirmary … the staff distracted with the commotion I'd left in my wake … My heart pounded, my eyes widened as my mouth parted in shock as another question nagged at me: Why had Riddle been wondering around looking for me? What had he done before he'd found me?

"Sal?" called Montague tentatively. "Are you feeling alright? You're so pale."

"He's always pale," muttered Rosier.

"Gotta go!"

Barely ten minutes back in the dungeons and I was already scrambling out of it: I darted up the stairs, right up to the third floor. It took me a few minutes of frustrated searching before I found the corridor Dumbledore had warned us against entering.

Riddle's diary was clutched tightly in my hand; a quill tucked into it. Glancing around to make sure no one was here, I hissed at the diary, flipping it open violently. "Come out – right now. It's urgent." It did not respond. Stubborn git. I scribbled hastily into the quill: **_What did you take?! You thieving git, give it back!_**

The diary's response was immediate: _Once more, I extend generous pardon to your rude attitude on the account that you do not know me personally well enough to know I'm not a petty thief._

**_What do you have to say about the Muggle trinkets you stole from your fellow orphans in the orphanage?!_**

_I'll be putting aside the wonder as to how you knew to say those trinkets were trophies of my victory over them. What's missing?_

**_A troll – it's not where it's supposed to be!_**

_… Even if I'm the thief, what would I do with a troll? What _can_ anyone do with them?_

**_Some nefarious scheme only you could concoct._**

_Trolls are so hopelessly stupid they make Crabbe and Goyle intelligent; whatever scheme I concoct, no matter how brilliant, would be wasted on them. Would you please elaborate on the circumstances that have you so frenzied? Was the item important?_

I was wasting time arguing with him. Opening the door a crack – after unlocking it with Alohomora, which, to my eternal frustration, was so simple it was begging for students to infiltrate the traps within and challenge themselves to it – I peered in, wary of Hagrid's pet.

The Cerberus was awake, growling and drooling and the putrid scent nearly made me faint. There were no instruments anywhere and the trapdoor was still intact. As the middle head raised its hackles, ready to pounce, I retreated hastily and slammed the door shut, heaving a sigh of relief.

**_Sorry for the previous accusation, the thing's still there. Haha. ;)_**

_You charged in flinging accusations at me without properly confirming the status of the item? [And ;)?]_

**_I've got good reasons to accuse you. And I apologized, didn't I? If it's not enough – oh, I beg your forgiveness, it's never enough with you. [Never mind that emoticon]_**

_Something to do with the troll._

**_Yeah._**

_Someday, Rasalas Lestrange, you'll be spilling all your secrets to me. I grow tired of guessing games. What's a troll doing in Hogwarts? Did your DADA professor bring it in for hands-on experience and a demonstration?_

(I snorted. Riddle was just centimeters away from the right answer. Yeah, my DADA teacher definitely brought it in.)

**_You can try asking; in exchange forgive me for hurling justified but wrong accusations at you._**

_But you won't necessarily answer the question._

**_I can only promise honesty in turn. _**The silence dragged on for too long and no words appeared on the blank pages dated at the top with October 13th. **_What's wrong with you now?_**

_I have so many questions it's taking me a troubling time to phrase them in a way I can get hints._

_Ah, yes. Tell me, if you will, what is Lord Voldemort's fate in the end? What is my fate?_

This was a question I actually didn't mind answering. An answer I desperately wanted him to know.

**_You'd be destroyed soon._**

**_There are consequences to tearing your soul apart; only with a full soul can you transition from one world to another. Just as those Kissed by Dementors go nowhere but eternal nothingness, Voldemort would be trapped in limbo, in the flesh of a skeletal child, in torment._**

**_Yes, he was defeated; yes, it was too late for him to repent; yes, he'd suffer an eternity of agony just as he'd feared. Even your father got to go to a better place than where your original incarnate ended up in. Merlin, if you'd seen your original incarnate – I think even you will be running for the hills. Screaming._**

_…This is the absolute truth? Not something to scare me with?_

**_I … I thought you knew._**

_Knew what? The consequences of making a Horcrux? Of _being_ one?_

**_No. I thought you knew I _****did_ pity Tom Riddle. You are a part of him; a part he discarded and I pity you, Horcrux, for you will perish and enter nonexistence – no thoughts, no dreams or ambitions, with no one and alone._**

**_Believe it or not, I think that's why the Mirror reflected nothing for you to see: you have no future, whatever you desire didn't matter because, in the end, you're just something the Mirror deem too ineligible to even reflect … a Horcrux._**

Writing in the diary and seeing it respond had not really driven the fact in: Riddle was just … Riddle. Up until I'd written that word, I'd always considered him a separate existence from the Dark Lord suffering in his exile.

_I've transcended death!_

**_No, you've only delayed it. Everyone dies someday._**

I sound like a hypocrite: I hadn't died yet. Everyone dies someday – did it apply to me? I who am living my second life, as someone else, giving advice to a boy fearing mortality that death was normal.

**_But – it's fine, _**I added in a hasty scribble, still crouched in the forbidden corridor**_, I mean, you're a Horcrux; you were never alive to begin with so you can't die in the same sense humans do. When this diary is destroyed, you won't even have the conscious to realize you're gone. So you won't even be afraid of anything!_**

_That is supposed to be a consolation?_

**_Well, what can I say to make you feel better? We're two different people with very different opinions on death – you're scared, I'm not, and I will never be afraid of it: what I fear is how little I've lived before dying. I'm scared of life – its trials, tribulations and agony._**

_That is the most you've shared about yourself. How irony toys with us: fate has given me a keeper who cannot even begin to understand me, and one who I don't understand either._

And had the diary had a voice, it would've laughed right now. Dark, cruel and haunting, mirthless in its biting laugh. The same hysterical chuckle fell from my mouth.

**_That we cannot empathize with another is evident: or I would've ended up in the same gutter as you, and you might not even be Lord Voldemort if you'd mastered death._**

_I concede to your point … Sal._

**_Good night, Tom._**

_There is no night here, I do not rest. I do not sleep. It's a ceaseless existence._

**_Then before Draco and I came along, wasn't it boring?_**

_It was a ceaseless existence._

**_I don't get it._**

_And you won't: you know too much about me already, you don't need to know more – as it does not concern you anyway._

**_It's called sharing, Riddle. If your matron's never taught you that._**

_If I shared with you, what would you share with me in turn?_

**_That's no longer sharing; that's trading._**

I closed the diary before we could get into an argument about it. One that would result in my aching writing arm.

**~{X}~**

Even though I frequently fought ceaseless, tireless battles with insomnia and had rarely won – without my knight Dobby – I still put on pajamas and went to bed every night, with the dwindling, untruthful resolution to begin my battle anew, alone and unaided.

The worst part was that when my eyelids would drift to sleep, a memory would jump at me – of the Dementors, of my first life's death, of my parents being dragged away, of Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom being tortured, of scenes in my previous life leaping at me, taunting me to reach forward and grasp a life that had been peaceful – and I'd jerk awake more alert than ever.

It was agonizing: nearly falling asleep only to be torn away from what peace sleep provided. Roughly so.

But that night on Halloween, I fell asleep. I swear! When I blinked drowsily at the hangings, and fully opened my eyes again, it was to the rousing of my dormitory mates: Rosier waking Adrian. I tensed at that, determined to pretend I was asleep. Hopefully, they'd get the hint and leave me alone.

It was refreshing to be so fully rested. I was positive I didn't look quite like a panda. Then I remembered: it would be Friday, it would be a tutoring session I'd have to suffer through.

And one thing – that I had a blank stretch of memory between blinking drowsily at night and waking up in the morning – bugged me. What if I'd been possessed by Riddle? He had once demanded to use me as host, a better replacement to Draco; he'd said yesterday he'd gotten a sliver of understanding of me but that we also confirmed we'd never truly empathize one another in any aspect had led me to conclude he was incapable of possessing me.

I rolled around, scowling and reached blindly for the diary. Instead, I felt the swaddled sheets of my bed. My eyes popped open as I stared at the indent on the space next to my king-sized bed and the shape of a head on a pillow I certainly did not remember placing in such a way.

My bed had a total of five pillows – Slytherin's dorms were a luxurious comfort to compensate the chilliness and gloominess – and bolsters and whatever I could request from the house-elves. I only used two: one to rest my head on and the other to cover my face.

Someone – something – had slept beside me, while I was unaware.

Hairs standing on end, a bloodcurdling scream tore from my throat.

"What's wrong?" demanded Montague, ripping open the hangings to my bed. I stopped screaming at once when I saw Adrian at his shoulder, staring wide-eyed.

"It might be faster to ask him what's _right_ – then we'd know what else is wrong," said Rosier jokingly.

"Something snuck in here and – and –"

"And what?" asked Montague somewhat impatiently. His eyes flitted to where I was pointing. He seemed to notice there was an indent. "Did someone … sleep beside you … the whole night?" His brows were rising higher than usual.

"That's what I want to know!"

"You didn't know?"

"No! And I'm an insomniac, remember? I _don't_ sleep, I should know if anyone's came in through the door!"

"So who made that? You're not nearly big enough to fit the criteria," noted Rosier thoughtfully, coming to the other end of the bed, squinting at it. "Can't be anyone younger than a fourth-year," he confidently stated. "Is it your boyfriend?" he wondered innocently. "Fli—"

"Are you insane?!" I shrieked, tearing silk beneath my fingernails. Rosier reared back with a flinch. The other two had scrammed, leaving Rosier to my mercy as I sprang to my feet on the bed. Boring holes into him with the sheer intensity of my glare. "I told you: it was libel! Adrian started it!"

Rosier's eyes widened. He swiveled his head to look at Adrian. "You _did_?! But – why—?" spluttered Rosier, taking Adrian's silence as an affirmative. "You lik—"

"_Conrad_," groaned Montague, flapping his hand to keep him quiet.

I made a disgusted noise, jumping off my bed, anger quite flushing out the hysteria I felt at the knowledge some stalker had snuggled up beside me and I'd actually gotten comfortable enough to fall asleep due to it. "Yeah, you ask him: I'm not interested in knowing why." That said, I stomped into the bathroom and slammed it shut. The ringing drowned the first part of Rosier's sentence, his rant.

"—ou messed up, idiot! Sabotaging is not a way to profess your undying lo—"

The spray of water on rocks dashed away the conversation from my hearing.

**~{X}~**

Quirrell was still in class the next day.

I stared blankly at him, wondering when the last time I'd even paid him attention was. I learned more from the Room of Requirement than I did from him. Sitting in his class – and Binns' – was a waste of my time; I generally turned those sessions into study hall time. Golden time I could use to hone my skills.

I raised my hand.

"Y-Yes, Mr. Lestrange?" squeaked Quirrell tremulously. Focusing on him solely now, I noticed that he was unhealthily pale: the bags around his eyes sagged, and made my 'mascara' look minor.

"I – sir, do you need a Pepper-Up Potion?" I blurted the question out before I could stop myself. He suddenly reminded me of Dobby, a frightened servant misbehaving, did something wrong. And Dobby always had my compassion. "I mean, I'm going to the Infirmary too, I can subsequently get you something? Excuse my forwardness, sir, but you look extremely pale."

Quirrell's lower lip trembled, eyes shining too bright all of a sudden. Then, much to my horror, he burst into tears and sank to his knees, weeping. Disturbed, I sprang to my feet. My classmates swept murmurs around the room, snickering scattered here and there, belittling the man who got too far in and didn't know how to get out.

I decided to spare him further humiliation. "I'll get a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey! Conrad, Graham, escort Professor back to his office." I turned to the Slytherins in class – DADA was one of the classes that did not mix two Houses together. They probably knew if Gryffindor and Slytherin were arranged together, there'd be a genocide waiting to happen. "Class, dismissed!"

My insides squirmed slightly at how quickly everyone obeyed.

Then I remembered, as Conrad and Graham seized Professor Quirrell by the elbows and coaxed him out of the classroom, that I'd promised to get my teacher a Calming Draught.

I quickly made my way there.

Madam Pomfrey didn't look happy to see me. Only then, looking into her disapproving face, I recalled that the only times I showed my face here, I was the harbinger of bad news – I'd brought injured students here to be treated. Clearing my throat awkwardly because I was also carting bad news now, I said, "Um, is there a Calming Draught here – Professor Quirrell really needs one."

Concern softened the lines around her eyes. "What happened?" she asked as she went to her cupboard. I remained at the doorway, noticing no one was perusing the Infirmary this hour except for those who'd been Petrified and they were hidden behind curtains of white.

"Nervous breakdown," I replied shortly. "The stress got to him."

"That poor dear," sighed Pomfrey, bustling back to me with a potion of sky-blue color. "Where is he now? Does he need me to check up on him in his office later?"

"Oh, no," The last thing I wanted was for Pomfrey to walk in on Voldemort and Quirrell – and wow, did that sound wrong, I'd never think like that again – and get killed. "A sleep and a pick-me-up should do him justice." I mustered a faint smile her way. "Thank you for your help."

Her periwinkle blue eyes beamed at me as she patted me out of her domain.

Conrad and Graham didn't leave until I arrived. Rosier and Montague were standing outside his office when I arrived, potion in hand. "How can you be sure he hasn't committed suicide if you're staying outside?" I asked incredulously, stopping short when I saw them whispering to one another.

Montague shrugged. "If he wants to die, what can we do anyway? I'll rather not have an Avada Kedavra my way in a misguided attempt at compassion. In any case, do you need us to accompany you?" He looked pointedly at the potion.

"I'll be fine." I waved them off. "One of you – please send a house-elf with Firewhiskey and Butterbeer up to Quirrell's office?"

"Why're you so nice to Quirrell?" asked Rosier blankly, straightforward. Since I'd technically ordered the whole of my House to be upfront with me, I shouldn't be surprised at this less-than-subtle approach.

"Because I'm a walking, talking personification of kindness," I responded drily, eliciting matching grins on their faces, before they sauntered off.

I frowned at the door, then I entered.

**xXx**

* * *

It has been way too long. I didn't even realize I had this chapter done months ago, and had left it gathering dust.

Next chapter, the story will divert into more. The Philosopher's Stone can apparently grant a corporeal body though how it does that exactly mystifies me ... does anyone have a substantial theory?

**R&amp;R**


End file.
